Duty's Cross
by Mojo Arrogance
Summary: A story detailing one of the CS's first assaults on a Xiticix hive. I am exploring the inner workings of the early period CS war machine, circa 102 PA . Yes, I changed the title, cause the old one was lame.
1. Demons and Doubt

Bug Hunt

Bug Hunt

_Author's Note: Please understand that I do not claim ownership interest in the Rifts multiverse. Rifts and all associated copyrighted materials are the intellectual properties of Palladium books. My intent is purely non-profit storytelling utilizing the background, themes, and settings described in the Rifts role-playing game. This story is written solely for your reading pleasure and is not to be distributed for any gainful purposes whatsoever._

Chapter 1

Demons and Doubts

April 2, 102PA 0830 Hours

Coalition Expeditionary Forces

Forward Operations Base, Charlie One-Four

Northern Michigan

With his right hand progressively rotating the throttle back, Captain John Drogue felt more than heard the big machine come to life beneath him. The young coalition officer had likened the sensation to straddling a violent she-demon. Like a mechanical force of pure rage; vibrating, pulsating, and barely contained by the alloy shackles withholding it. The three main engines below and between his legs slowly shifted from a high pitched whine to a dull roar as she drank in the offered power. Superheated air became ejected plasma, providing the thrust that was rapidly building his velocity down the makeshift runway. The heart of a demon to be sure, but the airman imagined that she must love him all the same. They'd been together a long time. He felt the familiar surge in lift as the sky cycle hit the translational lift barrier; busting the so called 'cherry'.

The transition from a hover to forward flight could be tricky for a rookie pilot. For pilots of the AFC-023 Sky Cycle, it was known as 'busting the cherry'. The term roughly describing a transition in which the pilot urged the aircraft past the point where it was reliant on vectored thrust and into forward flight where relative airspeed was the primary lifting force. It was a source of consternation for many young flyers and a maneuver that saw many cadets in the Coalition States Air Forces Division washed out and sent packing for infantry school. For those who succeeded, it became a subconscious thought process rather than a manipulation of the controls. And so it was today.

The clandestine dirt strip cleared for their use by the Ishpeming government now flashed by as he smoothly relaxed pressure on the vertical thrust levers. Minus the drag of its 'vert-burners', the cycle continued to build momentum, forcing the ace hard against the safety harness holding him fast in the saddle. They were loaded heavily on this run, and the more speed he could generate while still in ground effect, the better. The wind whipped angrily past his armored body as he entered tuck position, placing his swooped helmet behind the meager windscreen further reducing the parasitic drag on his ship. Finally, at 100 knots he serenely coaxed the 'death's head' likeness on the nose of his craft skyward.

As the earth fell away below him, the young flyer was once again alone with the familiar exhilaration of powered flight. He shifted his weight lightly from side to side; dipping the handle bars first one direction then the other, forward then aft, drinking in the slightly varying gravity forces dancing through his body. He felt almost like his call sign namesake: Ghost, or The Ghost, as he was called by his squadron mates.

"Wolf lead, is alpha-bravo," he spoke into his helmet mike, using the phonetic brevity code for the word 'airborne.' The captain then rolled his ship left into a shallow bank circling the lonely dirt strip as he continued to climb. Below, he could see the raised dust streaking behind another AFC-023 on the takeoff roll. Moments later his helmet was filled with the familiar voice of his wingman.

"Wolf two, alpha-bravo," spoke 1st Lieutenant Jared White, better known as "Cracker" to his fellow pilots of Wolf flight.

At 1000 feet, Captain Drogue leveled off and reduced airspeed allowing his wingman to close the gap and form up. As Cracker pulled gently in at his eight O'clock, the radio crackled to life once again.

"Wolf three, I'm alpha bravo," came the Arkansas drawl of 1st Lt. Alan Ichfeldt, or "Icky".

"Wolf four, I'm up," was the last radio confirmation as wolf flight completed a final pass over the rudimentary airfield. 2nd Lt. Marion "Huck" Fynne was the last to join formation as the four ship flight rocketed off to the west.

Within minutes the rocky shoreline and shallow surf of Lake Michigan passed beneath the hurtling sky cycles as they proceeded out over the water and on to the target.

"Norgun departure, Wolf flight is feet wet, westbound at 1000," The Ghost, as flight leader made the outbound transmission to the Northern Gun radar operators in Ishpeming. They had not been briefed on today's action and there was no immediate response from the tower.

"Hold on we're getting coffee," came a mocking voice over the internal frequency. The Captain smiled inside his helmet, looking over his shoulder at Icky, the offending joker. He lifted his chin in salute, reflecting a shared sentiment.

After an interminable pause, Drogue was about to repeat when a husky voice came back over the departure frequency. "Uh, wolf flight roger, you're clear outbound. Good hunting."

"Wolf flight," was all he replied, signaling a received message. Then switching frequencies, "Wolf den, Wolf flight is alpha bravo, squawking guard, requesting vectors to target."

The radio operator in CS battalion HQ was much more prompt than his Northern Gun counterpart. "Wolf flight, vector 265 to target, two-fifty miles out… you're cleared hot. Give them hell, Sir."

"Wolf flight, wilco," replied Ghost coolly. Then, switching to his internal communications frequency, "All right boys, arm yo' shit, switch comm channel four, climb three thousand, make it two zero zero knots. Target is on the nose, bearing two six five at two-fifty miles."

The four sky cycles gently ascended to the prescribed altitude maintaining a perfect "finger four" formation. The formation so named for its resemblance to the fingertips of a human hand if viewed from above. The number one and two men forming Alpha element consisting of the middle and index 'finger' positions, while wolves three and four became Bravo element as the ring and pinky 'finger' positions. This was their standard four ship combat formation, practiced since flight school. It held the advantage of giving them excellent maneuvering options in battle, each element having a lead and a wingman in case the formation needed to be split.

As the airmen thundered further out over the seemingly endless expanse of the great lake, The Ghost chanced a look back at the rapidly receding shoreline of northern Michigan. He had to fight to turn his streamlined helmet against the whipping slipstream at 200 knots, and the action upset the trim of his aircraft just enough to cause a slight ripple in the formation.

"No worries, Chief," came the calm reassurance of his wingman, Cracker, the one member of the flight who perhaps knew him the best. They had been together since flight school back in Chi-town and after thousands of flight hours and nearly eighty combat sorties together; they could almost read each other's thoughts. While Drogue was honored by the devotion and confidence of his team; it was with extraordinary effort that he trusted himself with such loyalty. They might believe that 'The Ghost' could lead them all into hell and back out again, but the man was not so sure.

Although he professionally kept all doubts to himself, Drogue hated flying over the vast expanse of water. Due to weight limitations, and in order to carry the laser guided bombs critical to their assignment, Wolf flights' sky cycles had been stripped of all non- critical components. Nothing had been spared, even parachutes and flotation gear were considered 'extraneous' on this one. If anyone developed a mechanical problem, bail out was no longer an option; they'd have to ditch in the frigid liquid below.

Truthfully, this was only one nagging doubt out of many that banged around in the mind of the Coalition flyer. But orders were orders, and going around the lake was simply impractical. The flight lead had to consciously force the resurgent concerns to a forgotten corner of the mind and concentrate on the successful execution of his objectives.

"No worries," he replied with the steady cool of a seasoned combat aviator. It helped. Like dry land, the nagging anxiety of certain death disappeared behind him. John Drogue knew he would find a far greater peril awaiting his flight on the distant shores. It would be this danger that would consume all of his efforts should he successfully bring even a single one of his friends home again. All knew it, and all accepted it, but only the foolhardy welcomed it; The Ghost smiled. Beyond the distant blue horizon waited a fifth 'wingman', a constant and familiar companion to the bold airmen… ahead was Death.

Ahead were the Xiticix.


	2. Command and Control

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Command and Control

The insectoid aliens known throughout North America as the Xiticix, represented many things to many people. In the CS State of Chi-town, covering the old American Empire's states of Northern Illinois and Iowa, the distant alien menace served as sort of an ultimate example of otherworldly boogey-men. The common subject of stories told to unruly children and such to reinforce the dangers of tolerating the inhuman.

To any living creature living further north, whether humanoid or not, the rapacious aliens represented a very real and growing threat. Though no one truly knew their origin, it was a widely held belief that the alien menace had arrived through a dimensional rift of space and time sometime during the last century. With hives springing up all over what was once known as northern Minnesota and south-central Canada, it was further believed that their subsequent spread was indicative of a territorial instinct similar to killer bees. However, standing nearly 7 feet tall and weighing as much as 500 pounds they represented death on an infinitely greater scale.

Scientific conjecture aside, the facts were that new colonies were springing up in the area on a monthly basis, and that once ingrown, the bugs were damn near impossible to exterminate. Once a new hive was established, the warriors would swoop about in amazingly organized patrols, attacking all life forms in an ever increasing radius to feed their growing hive. A large hive could denude an area hundreds of square miles of all life before moving on, leaving a swath of devastated wasteland in their wake.

Three months prior to Wolf flight's launch, a distress call from a Northern Gun trading outpost on the west shore of Lake Michigan had spurred leaders of the industrial nation into action. The attempted rescue and subsequent reconnaissance missions to the site revealed a Xiticix hive hard at work in the utter consummation of the area.

The NG government had tried a variety of futile measures to regain the territory. Strategic bombing, missile strikes, and even a mechanized infantry assault had all been ineffective. It was rapidly discovered that you could destroy the hive structures and kill any number of the lesser warriors and workers, but unless you could get to the queen, the hive would survive to rebuild.

A surgical strike was required. Having little experience in this type of military option, the NG officials turned to officials of the Coalition States of America. The CS military's 14th Coalition Expeditionary Forces, or CEF, long active in the region under a combined forces agreement of the two governments, were a known quantity and proven ally to the beleaguered Northern Gunners. Never shy about demonstrating its military muscle, the CS high command quickly authorized the mission, christening it with the unimaginative, code name: Operation Bug Hunt.

The commander of the 14th CEF was an aging and burned out Colonel named Dorian Blain. Passed over for promotion twice before, he saw this mission as just one more obstacle between him and a full retirement pension. That he thought little of his all volunteer force was not a secret among the troops. Colonel Blaine was formerly a commander of an experimental seek and destroy division comprised mainly of the autonomous assault robots, or "skelebots" assigned to patrol the magic zone south of mighty Chi-town. Unacceptably high losses had seen him reassigned to the expeditionary forces where the CS High Command felt he would be unable to blunder on such a grand scale. To be relieved of a division and given command of a single under-strength battalion was the ultimate humiliation for the high brow officer.

Fortunately for the proud and skilled members of the 14th CEF, Blain was assisted (some would say supplanted) by a capable and clever young executive officer, Major Andrea Berthold. She was a rising star in the CS military and saw the chance to direct the operation as an opportunity to turn this target into one more victory in the Coalition's grand war to reestablish humanity's undisputed claim to their world. In all but name she commanded the efforts of the 14th in their latest assault.

The plan called for a three stage attack: First, came a general aerial and artillery bombardment to soften the target and generate chaos among the alien invaders. To date, much of the fortress like hive lay in ruin, a testament to the 14th's ranged attack capability, but follow-up reconnaissance had shown highly organized and coordinated activity within the hive, indicating that the Queen remained unscathed. It was hypothesized that her lair must lie in excavated caverns beneath the actual hive structures.

At this point, stage two was implemented. A two man team of Coalition Rangers, both trained snipers, had been dispatched to the target zone. With orders to remain undetected, they were given the unenviable task of sniffing out the exact location of the queen and to terminate her if possible. For weeks, the reports were negative and the frustration mounted. Colonel Blain retreated to his personal quarters and had become increasingly despondent as he drowned his sorrows in alcohol. But the CS troops persisted under the aggressive leadership of Major Berthold; her iron will became the cement that shored their crumbling wall of morale.

It wasn't until one day prior to today's action that the Coalition 'Dead Boys', (troops so-named for the black armor and death's head motif of their equipment and standards) had gotten their break. The scout/ sniper team had observed a larger than normal subset of the creatures moving eggs and amorphous larval types from the base of one of the ruined 'towers' to another. Subsequent employment of a tiny recon drone had finally found the Queen's egg laying chamber. Although the rangers could not get close enough to employ explosives, they could mark the target for the fast movers of the CEF's Sky Cycle squadron.

The news was pivotal. If the queen could be eliminated, the operation could proceed into its third and final phase, a complete annihilation of the alien host. An entire company of heavy armor and mechanized infantry was standing by to sweep the area clean. Without the sentient command of their queen, the chaotic horde would lack any semblance of an organized defense and would be easily wiped out by the 14th's heavy weapons. The Dead Boys would be shooting the proverbial 'fish in a barrel'.

Before briefing the disinterested Colonel on the infinitely fortuitous intelligence gathered by (what she considered to be) her rangers, Major Berthold had issued orders for the most recent attack. And less than an hour after the word was given, Wolf flight had thundered into the clear blue skies of northern Michigan with their menacing payloads. She knew the brave airmen flew into impossible odds; chances were high that few if any of the young flyers would return. But as she stood in the green field HQ tent surrounded by support personnel manning their various communications and monitoring stations, her only regret was that she had so few to send. Focused on a digital screen streaming a live video feed from the lead sky cycle's laser turret she silently mouthed two words.

"Godspeed, boys."


	3. One Shot, One Kill

One Shot, One Kill

Chapter 3

One Shot, One Kill

Sergeant Desmond LeBlue watched his crosshairs dance over the crouching form. This bug was something of an anomaly, possessing a mottled green exoskeleton and carapace rather than the splotchy ebony of the standard warrior Xiticix. It's 'arms' seemed arranged slightly different as well. But what unnerved the ranger the most were its eyes. This one just crouched there, looking up the slight incline at he and his spotter in their camouflaged ground hide, and what he saw reflected in those dark faceted pools of alien strangeness was something new entirely- something he recognized.

_Intelligent_, the young trooper thought to himself, _we've just become the hunted_. His stomach turned at the realization.

In his last two weeks in the northern Minnesota bush, LeBlue had seen plenty of the standard 'warrior' class who were by far the most numerous of the critters outside the piled mud and resin structures of the hive. Although his assigned mission was reconnaissance, he had personally 'minimized' (a sniper euphemism for eliminating a target) at least a dozen of the seven foot tall monstrosities. The warriors roughly resembled giant ants in some respects, with a segmented exoskeletal bulk sprouting six appendages. The upper four members were employed as arms, wielding a bizarre assortment of alien weaponry in combat, while the lower limbs appeared to be a pair of humanoid legs. They were also able to fly, albeit quite slow and clumsily on a pair of insect-like wings. But most disturbing to the seasoned killer was their grotesque heads. Sporting horn like protrusions, and set with multiple small black eyes, the head was dominated by a pair of large mandibles with the power to rend modern ballistic body armor.

LeBlue and his spotter, Corporal Derek Jensen had evaded, killed or misdirected the dim-witted warrior bugs for so long that the elder sniper was confident in their ability to remain in close proximity to the target hive as long as the mission required. They had even gone so far as to slather themselves with the recovered scent glands of slain Xiticix warriors as they had been advised by a local scout. They had further learned that the aliens communicated with each other primarily through the exchange of these chemical scents. With careful observation of the local winds and use of the creatures' own scent glands they had been able to stalk to within a mile of the hive, close enough to gather the critical intelligence on the location of the Queen's lair.

As far as LeBlue was aware, they were the only ground element of the CS military to ever infiltrate this far into a Xiticix enclave. The main body of their company was several miles further to the south, outside the immediate patrol area, standing by to storm the hive once the Queen had been eliminated. It was thought that without the cohesive leader around to coordinate and direct her horde, the bugs could be easily out-maneuvered, out-gunned, and eliminated, or at least that was the plan. It was a table which took weeks in the setting; and the tired and filthy snipers were hungry for the main course. And yet, for all of their care and careful study of the enemy, here they were, facing down this single stealthy bug that had somehow ferreted them out. Their new guest was most unwelcome.

"Target in the open, 600 meters," came the whispered voice of his spotter over the helmet radio. "He's too far out to paint us." He sounded nervous about the whole scenario as well. Among the various behaviors that the snipers had observed over the weeks was a curious tendency for the tenacious aliens to swarm to the site where one of their own had been recently killed. Sgt. LeBlue chalked it up to more of the mysterious chemical interactions that the creatures had with one another; the emission of some kind of 'death scent'. The pair had already been forced to move their concealed position twice after engaging individual bugs that'd strayed too close. They were barely within range to 'lase' the target. The mission hinged on their ability to remain hidden. With the sky cycles inbound to deliver the guided ordinance, the veteran sniper was not going to risk breaking cover, unless it became absolutely necessary.

"He's looking right at us," Jensen whispered peering through the scope of his own C-14 laser rifle. "Come' on Blue, take him." In reality the two had no realistic method for determining the sex of the hunter or if it even had one for that matter. By virtue of their menacing presence and aggressive behavior the two had long since taken to referring to the creatures generally in the male descriptive 'he' or 'him'. Only the Queen was referred to as a female, more often than not simply as 'the Bitch' to the two rangers.

LeBlue pulled back from his scope to regard his companion. Although generally very cool under fire, the young corporal appeared quite shaken by the appearance of this lone stalker, who by all appearances had them dead to rights. For a brief moment the sergeant was grateful that his young protégé didn't have the range to engage this critter on his own.

"The wind is all wrong," he explained his hesitation. "I don't like it. We drop this one and half the colony is going to come sniffing around. As long as he stays out there, its better we wait him out." In spite of of his superior's calm demeanor, Jensen maintained a vigilant eye on the skulking newcomer. LeBlue expected no less.

At least momentarily satisfied with the situation, LeBlue nonchalantly increased the magnification of the scope atop his JA-11 'Juicer' rifle. Definitely not a standard issue weapon for a CS grunt, but then operating far from CS territory had its advantages. In the hands of a skilled sniper the old pre-apocalyptic design of the JA-11 made a potent all purpose assault weapon. Its primary laser was finely focused for nearly a mile of effective range and was capable of variable frequencies for engaging specialized reflective armor, common in the time before the cataclysm. It also incorporated an Ion blaster setting for close range rapid firepower. And last but not least, a separate chamber allowed the wielder to load and fire a single 7.62 mm bullet in instances where over kill was undesirable.

The techies at Northern Gun had apparently acquired the schematics for the archaic design of the weapon and along with many contemporary manufacturers had produced high quality copies of the JA-11 en mass. Sgt. LeBlue had been ecstatic upon receiving his CO's permission to 'procure' such a weapon for use in the field. It had cost him more than a year's salary, including combat pay, but in the mind of a dedicated professional like the Sergeant, it was money well spent. LeBlue was jolted from his musing by the strained voice of his comrade.

"He's gone!" Jensen nearly shrieked. Instantly back on the scope, the sergeant's blood froze. The thing was literally no longer there.

"What the fuck!" demanded the veteran sniper.

"I don't know… one second I was watching the green bastard and the next he was gone!"

"Or you just couldn't see him anymore," corrected LeBlue regaining his composure. There were many methods by which a being could escape detection, but the veteran sniper was fairly certain that magic was not in the play book of the Xiticix aliens. That left few possibilities for a sudden disappearing act.

"Some kind of camouflage?" Jensen worked along the same reasoning.

"Let's find out," his superior said reducing the magnification of his scope and widening his field of vision. Precious seconds ticked by. He looked long and hard, his scan honed by years of training and field experience. He forced a slow and steady breath, diligently watching for something that didn't belong. There! A patch of scrub grass was bent the wrong way. He followed with the JA-11, the leaves of a shrub oscillated back and forth. The thing was moving toward them, and fast! With practiced ease the CS sniper further reduced his magnification and switched his scope to thermal imaging… nothing.

_They're bugs dumb-ass; _he chided himself, _cold blood, no thermal signature. _He reset the scope.

"Where is it?" the Corporal's voice was almost pleading now. LeBlue heard him flick the C-14 off of 'safe' mode.

"Be cool," he admonished. Another branch swayed against the prevailing wind, this one half the distance from where they had originally spotted the thing. LeBlue traced the path from one indicator to the next and mentally superimposed the path that he would take where their roles reversed and he the stalker. "There! I've got him!"

"Where?"

And there it was, crouched low in the scrub grass moving deliberately but rapidly on their position. Its formerly green exoskeleton had made a chameleon-like shift in color and now expertly resembled the surrounding fauna. The damn thing even had the presence of mind to maintain a small copse of trees between itself and the rangers, further obscuring its outline.

"Not bad," the sniper had to admit with a certain amount of professional respect. The hunter Xiticix was now close enough that he could see clearly the wicked spear clenched in its lower set of arms. The upper set were further up on the carapace than normal and instead of hands ended in a long pair of barbed spikes. This was definitely something new. But again it was those eyes that gave him pause; black as midnight, and much larger than normal, glinting with intelligence, and something else… _malice? Hatred?_ LeBlue let half of his breath out. The laser sight reticule froze on one of those alien eyes.

"The feeling's mutual, Motherfucker."

He squeezed the trigger.

There was a slight but audible squeal as electrical energy surged through the weapon, erupting in a red muzzle flash and an audible thunderclap as the laser bolt momentarily superheated the air around it. The horned alien head erupted into a shower of ruptured exoskeleton, superheated organics, and simple vapor. The headless bulk dropped to the ground and began to wildly spasm through the underbrush barely one hundred meters from the two soldiers.

"Damn things can change color?" Jensen cried incredulously. He hadn't seen the creature until the Sergeant's shot had permanently rearranged its thought processes. The fact that a bug had stalked nearly 500 yards on him in broad daylight and in a matter of minutes was clearly distressful to the young soldier, himself a highly trained sniper of the CS military.

_Damn! _ Thought the Sergeant, once the brief exhilaration of his latest kill had passed. He was starting to feel that familiar sensation that sometimes came over him just before the shit hit the fan. He knew that his hopes of remaining hidden were rapidly fading with each cold tingle in his spine.

"Sarge, check it out." Jensen had his binoculars out was pointing to the distant hive north of their hide. The large tower like columns constructed from what appeared to be mud and some type of secreted resin had largely been leveled by previous attacks, but several remained relatively intact. It was from those upright structures that numerous warriors were now pouring out to take flight in all directions.

The trepidation in the Corporal's voice was quite evident. "You think they're on to us?" he asked.

"I'm not waiting around to find out," was the reply from his superior. "Pack your shit; we've got to move, now!"

"But Sarge, fast movers are inbound; we've got to mark the target."

"Get on the radio with HQ and let them know that we've been compromised and will have to displace in order to give them a mark. I'm hoping that they'll bring up the heavy guns and maybe give the bugs a diversion. It may just buy us enough time to set up," Sgt. LeBlue was speaking rapidly now, his trained mind formulating an improvised plan on the fly.

Grabbing their weapons, the long range radio, the targeting laser, and leaving everything else behind, the rangers were running full tilt for the nearby cover of the forest when an element of about a dozen flying Xiticix swung towards them.


	4. Gambit

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Gambit

After nearly an hour of relative inactivity in the battalion command tent, the tension was nearly palpable. Many of the seated radio operators were becoming increasingly restless; one troop had performed so many radio checks with the sky cycle pilots that the flight leader had finally told her to 'clear the channel.' A group of intelligence officers had gathered around a large digital map detailing the area of operations and were in a heated argument about the exact location of all friendly forces in the area. Rumors persisted that the guards outside the tent were taking odds on possible outcomes for the mission.

Standing in the eye of the storm, Major Berthold, by all appearances the rock steady master at the helm, calmly awaited the decisive engagement. With dark hair, large brown eyes, and a supple figure, many would have described her as an attractive woman were it not for the perpetually fierce set of her jaw and intense focus in those deep brown orbs. As it was, any sex appeal that she may have exuded was effectively buried beneath a prodigious command presence. Her superior's utter apathy for his assignment had forced on her the mantle of leadership far sooner than she would have liked. But the keen sense of duty that ruled all aspects of her life demanded nothing less than everything she was.

The Major knew that she had been fortunate thus far in the campaign against the Xiticix menace, taking only a handful of casualties during the initial bombardment. And although they had inflicted much damage on the hive, they had made little strategic progress against the seemingly numberless horde. Faced with becoming bogged down in a no-win situation, the Major had gambled. She had backed her mechanized and heavy infantry forces off of the target, instead infiltrating a single sniper team into the target area in hopes that the bugs would relax enough to show some weakness. The move had paid off in a huge way, finding the location of the Queen's subterranean 'bunker' had changed everything. Success was now within her grasp, but they were not out of the woods yet.

Moving her convectional forces out of range was also cause for the plan's greatest weakness. She now relied on two men, alone among throngs of patrolling aliens to mark the small target shaft for her aircraft. Without the snipers and their targeting laser to guide the aerial bombs, the chances of placing the ordinance in that big bitch's lap dropped to almost nil. The rest of her ground forces had been repositioned for a rapid assault once the package was delivered, but surprise remained her greatest weapon.

So intense were her thoughts that she failed to notice the arrival of her superior as he shuffled through the tent door. His uniform greatcoat hung partially open and did little to conceal a burgeoning paunch. With his officer's hat slightly askew and unkempt graying hair peaking out at the temples, Colonel Blain's disheveled appearance contrasted markedly with his constantly arrogant demeanor as he marched past the scurrying support personnel to stand beside the Major. It was not lost on the man that no one had announced his arrival to the command center.

"Colonel," Berthold offered in greeting when she noticed the man's familiar disapproving gaze upon her. She never looked away from the tactical display screens in front of her.

"I trust you haven't allowed discipline to completely vanish in my absence," the elder officer groused. She could smell booze on his breath.

"My apologies, sir," Major Berthold replied professionally. "I've issued orders that all non-essential verbal communication in the command tent be suspended during combat operations. Unfortunately, it would seem that military courtesy was a casualty of my caution." She waited for a response to her explanation, fully expecting a reprimand that never came.

"Shall I rescind the order, sir?"

"No, just have me informed next time you do something like that."

"Yes, sir." She still hadn't so much as looked at the object of her disdain. Inwardly, the Major fumed at the intrusion.

_For weeks he's been content to stay in his quarters and pickle himself in booze, _She lamented. _And now he's hauled his worthless ass out here to interfere with my operation when we stand at the threshold of victory. _Only years of instilled military discipline kept her from attempting to have the man arrested at that very moment for gross dereliction of duty. In this remote post, she might pull off what potentially equated to mutiny, but the cost of failure would be high. The Major might be a gambler, but she knew well the politics of command and was no fool. With effort, she held her tongue.

Her inner struggle was interrupted by the harried voice of a radio operator. "Major, I have a priority transmission on the HF… It's Viper team."

Blinking in disbelief at the operator's blatant failure to address him, the commanding officer, the Colonel opened his mouth to deliver a scathing reproof when he was unceremoniously interrupted by his supposed subordinate.

"Open channel," Berthold stated without hesitation, fighting a smirk.

"Yes Ma'am!" The muddled Commander just stood there, agog.

The low warbling static of the high frequency channel thrummed through the command tent from it's origins across Great Lake Michigan. Of the available radio communications available to the CS forces, only the HF radio (which actually transmitted on a much lower wavelength than the standard VHF or UHF channels) had the range to cover such a distance without line of sight. The trade-off however, was usually a greatly reduced audio quality, and painstaking delays in the encryption/ decryption process.

After several agonizing seconds, the broadcast struggled to some semblance of a human voice. Major Berthold could hear the distinct pulse of small arms fire in the background. The speaker was yelling to overcome the interfering clamor, his voice sounded shaken and rushed; yet retained a quality of urgent professionalism.

"Wolf den, Wolf den… this is Viper one-six, we've been compromised. Repeat, we are fully defensive. Moving to grid two, one, six… static… seven, niner. Requesting air support, how copy? Over."

By now, Colonel Blain had recovered from his initial shock at being left out of the command loop and began barking orders at the radio operator. "Negative! You tell those piss-ant cowards to hold their position at all costs and to get their laser back on target."

The silence that followed could only be described as painfully uncomfortable as the comm. specialist looked pleadingly at the Major. Blain was now turning a discernible shade of purple.

"Did you hear me, soldier?" he screamed.

And so the dam of Major Berthold's military professionalism gave way to the flood of scorn that had been rising over the months under her negligent commander's thumb.

"Belay that order," she commanded calmly. The Colonel turned to her annoyed, although it seemed to be dawning on the man that his command authority had been seriously undermined by his absenteeism. Instead of imperious threats and ranting he seemed ready to employ a logical argument to grasp at the unraveling threads of his control.

"What! Major, don't be foolish. You're fast-movers are inbound and will be on target in a few minutes," the burned-out officer continued as if explaining something to a young child. "You allow those Rangers to move, and your aircraft will have no target."

The fact that the man was even this aware of the battle's progression came as a mild surprise, but in the end only heightened her frustration. Major Berthold turned to the object of her contempt for the first time since he had ambled into her presence.

"_My_ rangers are overrun," she explained, mirroring his patronizing tone, "And if they remain in place, there will be _no_ Rangers, and _no_ target. They need to fall back, and we-" she motioned to the assembled staff, clearly excluding the Colonel, "-shall provide them cover." She felt distinctly the eyes of the entire headquarters staff upon her as she continued to walk the dangerous line of insurrection. Several held their breath.

Andrea Berthold was in too deep to back down now, she knew it and to her surprise found she no longer cared. If the bumbling commander stepped in and botched the mission there was no doubt in her mind that he'd find a way to pin the failure on her. And she'd be damned to the stockade for life before she'd let the old fool make a sloppy grab at victory when she was so deeply invested. So great was her derision that she refuse to even humor his attempt to engage her in a stare-down. Instead she brusquely turned her back to the cretin and continued undeterred. She heard a staffer gasp.

Facing a tall, thin tactical officer at the situation board, she asked, "How far out is our ground assault force?"

"T-Ten klicks, Ma'am," the man was visibly shaken by the unfolding events. He hesitated only a moment before casting his lot in with the Major. "I can send in an artillery mission but it'll take at least 10 minutes to put armor into the target area through that type of terrain."

"Get the mech units moving and have arty standing by," the Major ordered crisply. As the lanky officer turned to his radio and began relaying the critical orders, the HF frequency stuttered to life again over the speaker system.

"… static…Wolf den! Wolf den! Viper one six, please advise, over!" More small arms chatter and some yelling in the background, the sender's distorted voice was starting to reveal strands of desperation. Major Berthold grabbed the offered handset from her radio operator, keying the mike.

"Viper team, proceed to fall back position, pop smoke to mark and take cover. Air support is inbound."

"… static…Viper one-six, roger, out."

Colonel Blaine had produced a silver flask from his greatcoat and was taking a deep pull. Wincing slightly at the burning liquid, or possibly from the entire scenario, one couldn't tell.

"You're making a foolish move, Major, and upon your failure I'll see that you get all the credit you deserve," he stated flatly. The words were benign, the implications malignant. The Major had had enough; angrily, she spun on the man.

"The only foolish move I have made is allowing your drunken ass into my command tent! By authority of command article ten of the CS code of military justice, I am hereby relieving you of command!" Most of the assembled had never heard her voice rise in ire. The Major thought several eye balls might well pop from their gaping sockets. "Now remove yourself before I have you arrested for dereliction of duty… sir!"

For a brief moment, Berthold thought the slovenly officer might just have enough fortitude to call her bluff. He took another pull of the flask, glaring at her over the shining container, screwed the lid back on, shrugged unapologetically, and marched out of the tent. Although the posted guard did not salute him, the Colonel never looked back.

Without losing a beat, the female officer returned to task, trying to drown her doubts in the needs of the moment. _What had she just done? _ Her sense of military propriety shrieked in outrage and despite her abundant willpower the nagging voice of uncertainty refused to be silenced. It was as unfamiliar a sensation to the woman as it was unwelcome. Her outward show of strength notwithstanding, at that moment, she felt small and alone.

She glanced at the men and women gathered in the stuffy tent. The assembled command group looked on in anticipation of her orders with an awe that she hoped was rooted somewhere in respect and not merely sympathy for a fool. Someone breathed a sigh of relief. Still, her subconscious harassed her. _With their loyalty, would she be taking them all down with her?_

Intermittent static from the radio snapped her back to the moment. Whatever battle had taken place here, and any consequences forthcoming would surely pale in comparison to the cost of failing her men in the field. Stifling a feral growl, Berthold squared her shoulders and forced her doubts away.

"Give me a channel to Wolf flight," she commanded and was instantly given a new handset.

"Wolf lead, this is one-four actual, over," Major Berthold used the call sign reserved for the unit commander. There was a short pause before a response.

"Wolf lead, over." She could here the faint wine of a plasma jet's turbines.

"Advise ETA to target, over."

"Wolf flight is twelve miles to target, should be there in about five mikes." The Major hated how pilots clung to their traditionally archaic system of measurements. Nautical miles, feet, knots, etcetera; it would be so much easier to calculate if they'd adopt the metric standard employed by the rest of the CS military.

_How far is a mile, dammit! _She thought ruefully.

"Increase speed to maximum, Viper team is engaged and needs immediate air support, they are southeast of the hive complex approximately one point five klicks, watch for smoke. You are clear to engage the enemy as necessary and then remain on station for your primary objective."

The airman's response was quick and professional, "Roger, actual. Wolf flight is locked and cocked, going in hot, looking for smoke. Out." The background whine of the engines noticeably increased in pitch.

Major Berthold had always envied her pilot's ability to sound so collected, almost cheerful even, despite imminent peril. At present she felt all facade, and anything but cool. Setting the radio handset aside, her hand trembled visibly.

Events had now progressed beyond her direct control. The outcome of the entire campaign now rested on the guts, guile, and skill of those sweet motherfuckers diving into death's jaws. They might never know of the quiet mutiny that had just unfolded in the headquarters tent. Berthold smirked at the thought; they probably would not have cared for a second even if they had. For a brief moment she envied them. Wishing she were out there with them, gambling with only her own life. But like the dispatched airmen, the dice had flown her grasp, she was left with only a whispered prayer that both would come up winners.


	5. Not so Friendly Skies

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Not-so-Friendly Skies

Sgt. LeBlue had just hurled a smoke grenade ahead when the ground around them erupted in a hail of impacts. The bugs unleashed a healthy barrage from their bizarre telekinetic weapons. The weapons were absolutely silent, the bolts of mystical energy completed invisible, but there was no denying the reality of the deadly projectiles as they exploded into brush all around the scampering pair.

A football star in high school, LeBlue was rapidly closing on his sprinting comrade when the Corporal was hit in the back by one of the insidious bolts crashing down around them. His camouflaged 'dead boy' armor withstood the missile, but the impact spun the unfortunate ranger and bore him to the ground. Spinning in mid stride like a running back breaking a tackle, LeBlue fired a wild burst of ion bolts from the JA-11, wielding the rifle in one hand. Without waiting to see if he'd hit anything, the big ranger completed the spin and grabbed his downed companion under one arm. Hauling the winded trooper to his feet and giving him a rough push towards the now billowing smoke between themselves and the tree line.

"Move! Into the smoke!" he yelled.

Both could hear the angry, low pitched pulsating wing-beats of the heavy alien fliers. It sent chills through the seasoned troops as they sprinted for the cover of the seemingly distant pines and the intervening smoke. Both were hit by the increasingly accurate fire of the bugs' TK machine guns, their body armor refused entry to the alien fire, but Jensen was nearly knocked from his feet again.

With the lead warrior Xiticix bearing down on them, the great yellow plume of chemical smoke swallowed first Cpl. Jensen and then the larger LeBlue as he stayed protectively behind his younger charge. Immediately the incoming TK rounds ceased, but whether because of the dense haze or an instinctive reluctance to hit their own, some of which were surely on top of the of the two desperate humans, LeBlue couldn't say.

He could only see flashes of the dark tree line as he strode through the swirling sea of yellow smoke that was the closest thing he had to cover at the moment. His heart pounded in his ears, his breathing so loud inside his environmental helmet that he could barely hear his own thoughts. Jensen stumbled on a rotten log and wrenched an ankle in keeping himself upright. His C-14 laser rifle clattered to the ground. Grimacing aloud the corporal forged onward, leaving the weapon and tossing the heavy long range radio aside as well. Hopefully air support would soon be within range of their helmet radios' short range anyway.

LeBlue could hear them clearly now, clicking and hissing in their strange language, if that's what it was at all. He chanced another look back just as the first of the trailing bugs touched down about 20 meters behind him, landing in dead run, amazingly fast for such a large creature. Jensen was still ahead, almost to the tree line. His heart leapt; this was it. If they made the heavy cover of the dense forest they may be able to hold off the horde long enough for support to arrive.

And then it happened, the imposing black bulk of a Xiticix warrior swooped down in front of the two, cutting off their escape. Smoke curled around its pumping wings. Jensen was unable to reverse his momentum and ran headlong into the chitinous abomination. It seemed to LeBlue as if he were watching in slow motion as the creature grasped his fellow CS ranger in its lower pair of hands and lifted him fully from the ground. He thought he saw Jensen fumbling for the laser pistol at his belt as he stopped and turned to meet his own fate.

Like an extension of his body, the JA-11 went firmly to his shoulder, his finger mashed the trigger and the first of his pursuers ran face first into a stream of blue-white ion fire. It went down with a thud, steam hissing from a holed carapace.

_So this is it?_ The young sergeant thought with suddenly perfect clarity as the black bulks of the alien menace emerged from the now dissipating smoke. They were no longer charging in, but stalking. Sensing the kill at hand, they spread out into a rough semicircle in front of the man. He could now clearly make out their crystalline melee weapons; jagged and oddly shaped alien instruments of death. Several brandished the peculiar telekinetic rifles, alien psycho-kinetic energy glowed from the misshapen, asymmetrical guns. Noxious green ichors dripped from clicking mandibles as the circle closed. LeBlue expertly slapped a fresh E-clip into his rifle.

With death now a certainty, gone from the soldier's psyche was any fear, only a distant and nagging disappointment that he had failed in his mission to illuminate the critical target for his brothers in arms. The radio in his helmet brushed his ears with static as the automatic squelch cut out to allow incoming radio traffic. After years of wearing the helmet, the static preceding any communication had become second nature to the sniper. He was sure he was about to hear the death cry of his spotter being torn apart not ten meters away. So close, and yet he was powerless to save his friend and companion from a gruesome fate. Looking into the beady alien eyes of his own approaching death, a solemn sorrow crept over the man. So close…

Then the radio spoke.

"Viper one six, this is Wolf Flight. I've got your smoke and we're inbound hot. Hope you boys have got an umbrella."

- - -

The skies above the target hive were in a greater state of chaos than any of the four airmen had ever seen. It was almost as if the other worldly monsters sensed the critical nature of the battle and had thrown everything they had at the trespassing forces. Xiticix warriors swooped about angrily, emanating in all directions from the remains of their pounded fortress. Most had only ascended a few hundred feet above the ground and were not yet a threat to the inbound sky cycles, but the reception was unmistakably hostile.

"Goddamn, look at all them fuckers," ruminated an awestruck Icky.

"Somebody pissed 'em off good this time," commented his wingman, Huck, in agreement.

"Roger that," Captain Drogue allowed. "Stay loose, give yourselves room to maneuver. We cover the target acquisition team, blow our loads and get the hell out of here, understand?" A series of confirmations followed.

Wolf flight had split into its component elements, Ghost and Cracker in the lead 'Alpha' element, with Icky and Huck trailing close behind in 'Bravo' element. After the initial rush into the target area, they were forced to throttle back in order to begin an attack run on the ferocious defenders.

"Tally on target, eleven O'clock low, watch out for friendlies," came orders from The Ghost, in lead position. Without another word, he throttled back, extended his speed brakes, and nosed over into a shallow dive. The smoke from viper team's grenade was wafting slowly with the wind, but near its point of origin, the captain could make out the vague details of a furious firefight. The large, dark silhouettes of the Xiticix jumped and buzzed about a smaller central figure holding them at bay with raking bursts of ion fire. The circle was closing, and without immediate help, the lone ranger was clearly doomed.

Drogue rotated his weapons selector to his dual mini-missile launchers and instantly the reticule projection of his integrated helmet display started acquiring targets. But even with his speed retarded the utmost, the diving attack did not provide much time for the targeting computer and only three of the bugs had been 'painted' inside his reticule before the low altitude warning sounded in his ears.

Recorded as a comically calm feminine voice, the warning repeated, "Warning, altitude. Warning, altitude." And indeed the familiar terra firma was rapidly approaching.

"Wolf lead, fox one," he called out, mashing the trigger under his right index finger. A smoking salvo of mini missiles rocketed towards the frenzied aliens. Cracker followed with a launch from his own missile pods and both aircraft pulled up sharply, rolling on full throttle in a desperate attempt to regain the relative safety of altitude. The plasma warheads of the missiles tore into the encroaching horde with a vengeance, brilliant green flashes of energy briefly illuminated the targets before sending various pieces of their collective anatomy skyward. Dirt, debris, shrapnel, and various organic compounds combined with the drifting smoke to fully obscure the area after the pass. Drogue could not see any movement through the screen.

"Viper one-six, you still around?"

"Fuck'n-ay," came a beleaguered response over the radio. Then the captain saw him, once again running for the forest's edge. Two of the monsters that had apparently escaped the maelstrom were hot on his heals. Icky and Huck were already entering their attack run, expertly lining up on the pursuers.

"Bravo element, use your lasers. Be advised, friendly is danger close." Drogue commanded, watching the attack as he circled in a climbing turn.

"Right on, Cap' we see 'im," twanged the unflappable Icky. "Viper, hit the dirt, boy!"

- - -

The ranger dove forward just as the sizzling beams of coherent light lanced though his pursuing death sentence. One of the Xiticix managed a very human like scream as its vaporized organs escaped through its breached chest plates. The sound was thoroughly and forever wiped out by the thundering sky cycles as they streaked over the prone sniper at treetop altitude. For the moment it appeared that he was free of the attacking insectoids. The trembling soldier stood slowly and took a moment to collect himself.

The area around him had been literally pulverized; smoldering craters had been plowed into the turf, small fires burned in the scrub, twitching alien carcasses jumbled in smoking piles littered the ground.

"I'll be damned," he muttered. And then loud enough for his helmet mike to pick up, "Somebody actually taught you flyboys how to shoot!"

"Fuck'n-ay," a glib southern drawl was the only reply.

LeBlue glanced up to get a look at his airborne benefactors, but what he saw made him thankful that he was not up there with them. The sky cycles had now fully drawn the attention of the aggressive aliens and were being assailed from every direction. He could clearly see two pairs of aircraft maneuvering wildly to climb out of the buzzing havoc.

Hoping that they could handle it, the ranger loaded another e-clip into his rifle and set off to find his spotter. It didn't take long. Corporal Jensen had nearly made it into the protective cover of the surrounding boreal forest when he'd been set upon by a single Xiticix. In the confusion that followed, LeBlue had not been able to come to his aid. The failure had proven fatal. The two were still locked in a deathly embrace; Jensen had been able to draw his pistol and jam it between the creature's mandibles, but not before being impaled on its jagged crystalline spear tip. It appeared as though the defiant ranger's final act had been to blow the contents of his assailant's head into the forest beyond.

As he approached, LeBlue tried to mentally distance himself from his friend. Telling himself things like: _Shit, I hardly knew the bastard, only been with him for a few months. _It didn't help. After several deep breaths, the seasoned soldier was able to turn his growing despair into a pure and righteous rage. He had lost many friends over the years and knew he'd kill every single inhuman freak on this planet before he'd consider the bill settled.

After disentangling the targeting laser from his fallen friend's corpse, the sniper set of at trot towards the original target shaft. His heart was heavy, but his mind was clear; the Bitch was going to pay.

- - -

At altitude, the situation was deteriorating rapidly. The Ghost grunted, flexing against the piling G-forces as he banked away from an assailing group of monsters. Telekinetic bolts of energy were seemingly everywhere. Unfortunately, unlike tracers or plasma, you couldn't see the damned things, and there was no warning from the AFC-023's computer, like you got when fighting a technologically equipped enemy. The worst part however, was constantly dodging the giant insects themselves, who seemed perfectly happy to fly into the path of a hurtling aircraft. While the rugged sky cycles seemed to weather hits from the TK weapons relatively well, an air to air collision with a 500 pound insect at attack speed would certainly spell doom for man and machine.

Switching to his lasers, and groping the trigger, Drogue swept the air in front of him, clipping one of the vermin and sending it spiraling to the ground. Then, with a quick look over his shoulder to ensure that Cracker was still with him, he rolled inverted and pulled the cycle down into a split-s, giving up precious altitude while gaining airspeed to move away from the swarm. Amidst the confusion, he had lost sight of Bravo element and felt a desperate desire to reunite his team.

"Wolf flight, fall back to the east and form up over the beach," he grunted, finally pulling his craft level after the violent maneuver. His men were in the process of responding when disaster struck.

"Roger tha- Huck! Break left!" Icky screamed over the radio, but it was too late. The two had run into a heavy concentration of Xiticix and before they could turn away, Huck had plowed headlong into one of the beasts. The collision was like running into a refrigerator at 300 miles per hour; pieces of aircraft, alien, and pilot cart wheeled though the air, arcing listlessly to the ground below.

It had happened so fast, and yet in the aftermath, everything seemed to move so slowly. Icky pulled up into a loop, cursing like a sailor and flying roughly towards the appointed rendezvous at full throttle. The Ghost and Cracker bobbed vertically in formation, vainly trying to get a look back at the wreckage.

"Icky, report!" The Captain demanded, cutting off his subordinate's string of obscenities. "Where's Huck?" There was a long silence before the other's response.

"Huck's gone, Cap," Icky's drawl was completely devoid of its normal exuberance. Drogue felt a lump welling in his throat; he had to fight for breath. Just like that, one more of his friends was gone.

"Roger that," he managed past the burgeoning lump. Then switching frequency he addressed the command post.

"Wolf den, wolf lead… encountering heavy resistance over target, wolf four is down. Viper team is clear." He reported, not having seen Corporal Jensen's demise. "We're pulling back to regroup."

"Roger, Wolf lead, regroup for another pass, armor is inbound."

"Roger. Out." Switching frequencies again, "Viper, you got me a target yet?"

A panting reply came back, "Almost in range, Sir… five minutes."

"Move your ass, Ranger!" Drogue growled, venting some frustration.

"Yes Sir!"

The remains of Wolf flight were just moving clear of the melee when the Captain again addressed his men, now fully back in control. "Move to the coast, trident formation; heavy guns are inbound, that should get their attention. When we come back around, I want to put some fire up their ass."

Cracker's response was immediate and determined, "Rock n' roll, Boss!" Icky's… not so much.

"Roger, Cap."


	6. Decisions Under Fire

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Decisions Under Fire

The lonely puddle trembled. A whitetail doe looked up from her drink in alarm. Boom! The ground shook, the high pine canopy shuddered. A forest that had outlived blizzards, drought, blight, and even raging wildfire quivered as if in fear. With a bleat, the doe gathered her fawn and the pair sprang for deeper timber, their tails erect in alarm. The tempo of echoing blows grew into a rapid succession, becoming a veritable earthquake. Anything that could run, did.

Trees that had stood unmolested for a century or more were trodden beneath the oncoming metal behemoths like winter wheat. Giant mechanized robots thundered through the thick timber at a speed belying their massive stature. The barrels and launchers of weapons capable of leveling entire townships bedecked their imposing superstructures. Mounted sensor arrays and antennae swiveled and swayed, feeding the crews within a steady stream of data. With each thundering step, tons of super-alloy armor supported on hydraulically driven legs thudded into the moist loam. And each wore the stylized death's head motif of the Coalition States of America.

At the head of the column, a six legged tank of a vehicle bobbed through the forest, seeking the path of least resistance. As the point element of the 14th CEF's mechanized infantry company, Lieutenant Josh Wilbanks led an assault force of three spider skull walkers, including his own, a bipedal abolisher robot vehicle, and a dozen troops in SAMAS power armor suits.

The inclusion of the gargantuan abolisher had been a last minute decision. Though its imposing bulk slowed the column, the Lieutenant was confident that the massive firepower of its twelve foot rail guns would more than justify the encumbered advance. Even so, all this technology clambered north through the boreal timber at a speed barely allowing the pilots to weave through the old growth pines. With a particularly loud crash, another tree was splintered beneath the driving limbs.

"Watch your right," advised the unit commander, speaking to his driver.

"Yes sir."

The cockpit of the Spider Skull Walker practically hummed with electrical energy, the low whine of hydraulic rams working in perfect synchronicity could be vaguely discerned from somewhere behind the aft firewall. The harried pace and constant maneuvering notwithstanding, the gyro stabilized suspension served to keep the cockpit level and comfortable for the robot's crew. Dim red tactical lighting contrasted sharply with a myriad of colored LCD readouts. The Lieutenant tapped one such; this one, a moving map display.

Just minutes ago, the 14th Mech had been ordered to attack the target hive earlier than planned. Previous weeks of waiting punctuated only by occasional artillery missions had dulled their edge of readiness and the orders had caught them by surprise. Wilbanks was determined to make up for the lengthy response time of his unit by moving onto the target with all possible speed; difficult through the heavily forested terrain. The swath of trampled lumber in their wake solemnly testified of his impatience.

The accelerated execution of the battle plan could mean many things, but the Lieutenant was a soldier who prided himself as always prepared for the worst case scenario. This led him to conclude that his fellow troops were likely deep in harms way. They had caught snippets of VFR radio chatter that supported the assumption, but their distance and position in the deep woods did little for clarity. But regardless of what might have befallen his comrades, orders from HQ on the lower bandwidth had been clear enough. At the end of the march, the officer fully expected to find a party that needed some crashing.

They had made good time and the unit commander could see open terrain through the trees ahead. The vague outline of the hive's remaining towers could be discerned through the obstacles. Dark specks flitted in and out of view above the distant target area. A chill rush passed though the Lieutenant.

"Gunner, arm your weapons."

X X X

"Heavy guns inbound from the south," said Cracker. From high above the swarm, the pilots could plainly see the falling timber that marked the mechanized approach. The black crown of rail guns adorning the head of an abolisher was even visible above the tallest pines.

"Yeah, I see 'em," replied The Ghost. "Alright boys, this is it. Viper needs a few more minutes to get us a paint job. We're going to give the bastards something to think about while he sets up. Keep it tight, most of these bugs will swarm the heavies as soon as they open fire, and we should have a clear shot at the west tower."

"Roger."

The flight leader was looking down past his armored boot at the buzzing chaos below. The timing had to be perfect or they'd be diving into an alien zoo. He checked the armored unit's progress, another tree crashed to the ground, almost in the open.

"Stand byyy…. Now!" he yelled, throttling back and peeling the heavy cycle into a banking dive. Cracker and Icky dove in turn and the three screamed earthward in a triangular formation.

As the hive drew rapidly closer, the IHAD computer was designating targets all across his field of vision. Black specs grew into Xiticix warriors rushing up to meet the attack. With a voice command, Drogue deactivated the targeting functions in order to maintain a clear view of the scene. Any second now they'd be bugging out to hit the armor. Any second…

X X X

"Driver, forward two hundred meters, then hold. Gunner, prepare to engage on my command."

"Roger," the two men chorused. They sounded hungry.

Wilbanks keyed his microphone, "Wolf pack heavies, fan out, converging crescent. Nobody fires until I give the signal." He watched approvingly on his radar scope as the armored column smoothly deployed into the prescribed formation. Months of monotonous training suddenly seemed worth every second.

"Sam platoon, take point." The SAMAS troopers in their man-sized power armor units scrambled past the heavy robot vehicles to take up their designated positions. The black robotic suits empowered the wearer with speed, strength, and lethality far beyond those of a non-augmented soldier. They reminded the unit commander of heavy metal shadows flitting between walker legs and trees alike. He would be damned if this assault was going to be another dog and pony show for the prima-donna flyboys; they'd already seen more action than the rest of the battalion combined. The bugs were about to receive a poignant period of instruction in the meaning of 'lightning warfare.' A smile creased his normally stern expression.

The lieutenant was just about to send final commands to his unit when his own receiver stuttered. A very weak signal crackled to life.

"Wolf pack," a husky male voice was coming through. "This is one four actual. You are ordered to stand down. I repeat, stand down."

The gunner turned in his seat. Wilbanks was glad for the helmet that covered his face. Gone was his eager smile, replaced by a very unprofessional gawk of confusion. He'd heard the words, but his brain seemed bent on rejecting them.

"Actual, this is wolf pack lead, 10 seconds to target. Say again your last, over." It must have been a mistake, or some idiot pulling a very untimely joke.

The arrogant growl was unmistakable even across the miles of weak radio waves. "…static…This is one four actual, dammit! Stand down, Lieutenant, that's an order."

His gunner was still staring at him. Even in full environmental body armor, Wilbanks could read the man's posture. He was pleading, itching to get in the fight. And why shouldn't they? The orders made absolutely no sense. Ahead sat a ripe target, reeking of alien wrongness, ahead were men in need of support, and behind were countless hours of training and weeks of 'standing-by'. His grip hardened on the microphone and he was once again grateful for the ebony mask hiding his indecision. He could claim a radio malfunction, or that the transmission was unreadable. Some might even believe it. But those who mattered would not. The decision was made.

"You heard the man; full stop." Both crewmen visibly slumped at the controls. Wilbanks could scarcely believe his own command; it was like listening to himself through the ether of a bad dream.

The hydraulic manifold seemed to groan in protest as the driver eased back on his control column, reining the robotic walker in. As the rest of the formation ground to a grudging halt, a final tree was laid low, giving the crewmen their first clear view of the battle. The Lieutenant felt almost apart from his own body, remotely watching in horror as his finger plunged onto his push-to-talk button to relay the damning orders.

X X X

Laser cannons leading the way, the trio knocked several Xiticix from their flight path. But the kills amounted to a paltry few of the gathering host. There were too many. Still too many.

"Uh, Cap, they aint leavin'," it was Icky. Indeed, the swarm of enemies seemed to be intensifying, the bugs forming into ragged formations to face the oncoming aircraft.

"Something's wrong," said Cracker. Drogue was in full agreement. The supporting fire from the heavies should have been falling like the hammer of god by now. The main body of the swarm would move to intercept the larger threat; the brainiacs from intel had assured him of it.

_Where the hell are those guns?_ He chanced a look away from the horde, and had to fight down a gut-punch of panic.

The armor had stopped short.

It was too late to pull up, they'd be flying right into the waiting Xiticix, now so close. A thousand beady eyes egged him on; eyes that had seen the demise of a friend. Fear mixing with anger, brewed a potent cocktail… hate. Lately it seemed to be his drug of choice.

_Damn the armor, damn this command, and damn the bitch Queen. They can all work it out in hell! _The Ghost steepened his dive.

"Stay with me!"

Two stout hearts followed the reckless move and wolf flight shot underneath the phalanx of oncoming insectoids. TK bolts of energy slammed across the leader's fuselage, popping rivets and blowing an access panel free. Instantly, warnings sounded in The Ghost's ears. One of his engines stuttered a moment before recovering. His knuckles whitened on the throttle as the burly little aircraft bucked and shuddered under the punishment. His wingmen cursed, taking hits as well.

"Stay with me!" he growled. Mother earth unfolded below as if to swallow them whole. Shadows enveloped the trio as they descended beneath the level of the mud-resin towers. The altitude warning joined the cacophony assaulting his ears. Bugs were everywhere.

"Warning, altitude. Warning altitude…"

"Pull up, now!" The G-loading in his seat felt like a boot to the groin, and for a split second The Ghost thought his spine might fold under the pressure. Grunts loud enough to transmit from his wingmen told him they were experiencing the same. The artificial horizon indicator projected in his helmet seemed to scroll by far too slowly as he fought to level the craft. Hard earth loomed. Every muscle in his body pulled against the onslaught. With an agonizing heave, the machine shuddered to a level attitude mere feet from the unforgiving hard-pack.

The Xiticix seemed momentarily disoriented by the daring move and most were now out of position to interfere. Individual aliens flitted into view ahead, but the main body of the swarm seemed to be behind them. The ground streaked along, not more than ten feet below. The flight leader took stock of the situation. He chanced a look over one shoulder, then the other. His men were still with him, still in formation. He'd half hoped that they had disobeyed and peeled off, but it was too late now. His aircraft's computer was rattling off a long list of warnings in her nauseatingly sweetsy voice.

"Speed brakes damaged. Stabilizer damaged. Coolant pressure critical. Warning, alt-"

"Shuttup!" he snarled. Not necessarily a standard voice command. Apparently, the machine didn't mind and ceased the verbal warnings, although a bank of red caution lights on the consol remained illuminated. Fear had long since been relegated to its familiar holding pattern in the back of his mind. Maneuvering the cycle now demanded his undivided focus.

The midday sun cast odd shadows off the hive towers and Drogue was reminded of flying through a canyon. Connecting archways and tunnels spanned the gaps between the structures at random and the three airmen were forced to break formation repeatedly as they wound through the alien maze. Had it not been for the dogged pursuit of the enemy and their current plight, the Captain might have even thought it fun. As it was, his breathing echoed with ragged clarity inside his helmet.

The corridor narrowed. Frenzied warriors coalesced ahead, threatening their flanks. The last in a long line of towers stood beyond like the finish line of a mad sprint. To the Ghost it became a focal point for his rage. "Target on the nose, everything you've got left."

"Roger that, Cap."

Engines screaming in protest, the airmen surged forward. Xiticix flashed by on either side, a few lucky shots thumped into the formation.

"Warning-"

"Shuttup!"

The tower filled his vision, more of the creatures poured from the upper levels, descending almost in a freefall. _Like rats jumping ship, _he thought. The trigger had never felt so good.

"Wolf lead, fox two!"

His wingmen called out their respective launches. As soon as the missiles were away, the formation pulled vertical. Even at full throttle the cycles bled airspeed rapidly in the ballistic climb. The Ghost looked back in time to see the salvo of warheads rip into the structure. To a drumbeat of concussive explosions, crude materials and dying aliens were flung from the gutted interior. With a reluctant tremor, the compromised structure started to cave in on itself.

"Yeah!" Icky flashed a gesture in their wake. The Ghost smiled in spite of himself, willing to let the mirth wash over his raw nerves. _Now if they could just get clear and figure out what the hell was going on._

A dark shape flashed by to one side.

"Shit!" it was Cracker.

With a crunch heard over the roaring engines, the falling creature latched onto the nose of his sky cycle. The collision was violent, but Cracker somehow managed to hold his seat. The bug worked his way eagerly over the crippled airframe, trying to get at the pilot. The added weight of the assailant was enough to retard his climb, and Cracker fell out of formation. The leader's mind swam.

"Crack head, turn to the north. We'll swing around and clean him off."

"It's no good, Boss," Cracker was grunting out the syllables. "Get clear."

"Cracker, stay with me!" Ghost leveled out inverted and looked 'up' at his friend below. The insectoid was flailing wildly over the small windscreen. The battered cycle wobbled once and then stalled, tumbling toward the ground. In an instant, the jumbled combatants struck the dirt and disappeared in a flaming torrent. Eyes clenched tight as if to ward off reality, it sunk in anyway. Th flight leader tried to choke out a curse, but his constricted throat denied him.

What bothered the young captain the most was the quiet that followed. Friends had died under his command before, and always he'd relied on the molten emotion of rage to fill the void of their passing. But it wasn't coming. How was a man supposed to feel after gambling away the life of his best friend? The flight leader ached for someone to reproach his foolish bravado, to curse him to the hells for the fool he felt. But even his own conscience seemed unable or unwilling to rebuke him for the wanton attack. What possible weapon remained to defend his sanity when he could not even bring hate to bear on himself. This time it was someone too close, and the emptiness would not be filled.

Drogue felt completely spent, his mind and body went numb. He hung there upside down as the war torn landscape and swirling Xiticix spooled out below. Caution lights flashed in muted pulse. The sounds of his own labored breathing tore at his psyche like angry wraiths bent on eviscerating his sanity. Blood started to rush to his head. Reality seemed to close in, threatening to choke off his consciousness. He fought. He breathed.

"Cap…" It was as if from a long distance away.

"Cap!" It was Icky.

"Cap, stay with me!"

X X X

"What do you mean, jammed?" Major Berthold demanded.

The comm. tech fiddled with her controls. "That's it, ma'am; our radio signal is being jammed."

"That's bullshit, I can hear them dying!"

"Incoming signal seems fine, our transmitter power is good," the tech scanned rapidly through a diagnostic screen. "Output signal is being disrupted by some kind of concordant resonance."

"You're saying that the bugs are employing electronic countermeasures?"

"Well no- I mean, I don't know."

The Major blew a long breath; she knew taking her frustrations out on the flustered tech wouldn't help. Her heavy support had stopped short of the target, a pilot had died as a result and the whole mission was threatening to unravel right before her eyes. She needed answers and she needed them quickly.

"Tactical," she called.

"I'm on it," the lanky officer whom she had designated as her second in command, was bent over the shoulder of his sergeant, scrolling through lines of recorded data. The man was so engrossed in his task that he hadn't looked at her to respond.

Her mind was spitting out possibilities for the jammed signal faster than she could discount them. She had originally thought it an equipment failure or glitch, but the computers seemed to show everything running fine. It wouldn't be the bugs, even if they possessed some supernatural ability to emit radio waves, the distances involved were prohibitive. Had Northern Gun turned on them? It made no sense, but she had seen stranger things in war. The time needed to track and defeat such countermeasures was time she didn't have.

"Lieutenant Morgan," she said impatiently.

"I'm looking as fast as I can."

"That's not fast enough."

His assistant, seated at the console spoke up. "There!" he said, pointing at something on the screen.

There was a pause before the Lieutenant extrapolated. "I've got something here, ma'am. The interfering signal originated locally."

"Where?" The Major felt a cold sweat push through her skin.

"Within a mile radius, somewhere in the bivouac area," he turned to face her. "And there's something else; whoever is jamming us has been sending encrypted signals on an HF bandwidth."

Memory hit her like a right cross. Her deposed superior had been idle for weeks, rarely present in the command center, but was somehow never lacking for tactical information. Hindsight washed the confusion from her expression in a cascade of bitter clarity.

"To whom?" But she already knew the answer. _That bastard!_

"To the mech company."

The silence that followed was eerily familiar.

The Major scowled in concentration. She believed that bold action had saved the mission from failure before. And yet it seemed that the same daring had now produced an ominous threat; a man intent on ensuring her failure, and very capable of doing so. Everything she had embraced in years of service to her nation yelled at her that such treason was not possible. In light of her own actions, the irony was bitter indeed. In that moment, surrounded by the faithful, her own faith died screaming.

She looked to her second. "As soon as that channel is clear, you send in those reinforcements."

"Ma'am?"

But the Major was already striding for the tent door. "Just do it, Lieutenant!"

"Yes ma'am."

The sunlight stung her eyes as she emerged from the dim command tent beneath a beaming midday sun. Squinting she made her way through the familiar camp. Past the transmission towers, an armored personnel carrier, the mess hall, she marched by without seeing any of it. Her eyes locked on a distant tent, pitched some distance apart from the orderly bivouac. The Major knew that to even slow her pace a little might give her enough time to reconsider. Pause would give reason a chance to bargain with madness.

As she approached the Colonel's hooch, a single guard snapped to attention at the door. Considering the man's recent disgrace, she was amazed that the drunkard still commanded even that much loyalty. Berthold waved the guard aside. He didn't move. Polished body armor glinted in the bright sun; the death's head visage of his helmet suddenly seemed more menacing than the Major was used to. He gripped the butt of his holstered pistol tightly, but didn't draw the weapon.

"Major, you shouldn't be here," the helmet distorted his voice. Still, the young trooper sounded conflicted.

"I'm here to see the vermin you are guarding," she spoke calmly.

"He left orders that you are to be arrested on sight."

She held out her hands, "I suppose you'll have to arrest me then, soldier."

"Ma'am, please. You know I have no-"

"If this is the only way that I'm going to speak with the coward behind you, then so be it." Reason pleaded in her mind, madness gave it the finger.

"Very well," the trooper sighed, "I'm sorry to have to do this."

"So am I."

The young soldier released the grip on his weapon and reached back for a pair of restraints. In a flash, Major Berthold lunged forward and hooked a finger through the pin of a frag grenade on his utility belt. The troop met her wild eyes in an instant of shock before she followed with a solid thrust kick, sending the man stumbling backward into the tent. The pin dangled freely on a manicured finger.

There was a muffled yell of surprise from within as Berthold turned and hit the dirt. The thunderous explosion sent the feeble fabric structure and its contents in a hundred different directions. Debris rained on the surrounding area. In the aftermath, little remained but a crater and twisted refuse. Andrea thought she could make out the blasted remains of a field radio pack among the grittier carnage. She blinked back tears. Her men might live, but her the battle was over.

Standing on legs that shook like willow saplings, Andrea Berthold could hear distant shouts of alarm past the violent ringing in her ears. Dirt clung to her dress uniform. For a moment, she feared her stunned mind and body were no longer capable of answering her command. Then, slowly, the iron will that had served so well for so many years put one foot in front of the other. A second step followed. A stagger evolved into a determined jog and then a sprint. In a career of military victories, running away from anything seemed as unnatural to the woman as admitting defeat. This time, it would seem, the sacrifice for victory would demand both. The irony was not lost on her shell shocked mind. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Andrea Berthold realized that she'd probably be running for the rest of her life.


	7. Going Solo

Chapter 7

Going Solo

With an announcement of thunderous recoil, the heavy weapons of the 31st Mechanized company tore into the Xiticix hive.

"Finally,"LeBlue mumbled between breaths as he halted at the crest of a small hillock. From there, the effect of the mechanized bombardment was truly awesome. He had no idea what had delayed them for so long, but wasn't about to question the new development. As the robotic behemoths blasted away with their heavy weapons, the outlying towers of the hive were being systematically flattened like goliath bowling pins. Under different circumstances, he could have sat quite content on the small rise and simply watched the destruction unfold.

_Jensen would love this, _he thought. Indeed, he and his spotter had watched many such scenes in their role as forward observers. He winced, the train of thought reminding him painfully of the task at hand.

From a pouch he produced his PDA, checking the recorded mark of the target against the terrain arrayed in front of him. The shaft to the queen's lair was nearly in the middle of the hive structures. He guessed that it was probably only a kilometer from his present position, but the angle was impossible; he needed line of sight. So far he'd been unable to reacquire the target and found himself constantly moving closer to the imposing fortress in search of that elusive angle. As he surveyed the dirty brown pillars he realized that it was still concealed in the mass somewhere. The veteran sighed.

The collection of earthen towers that formed the Xiticix hive occupied a scar of parched earth nearly a kilometer across. This, inside a greater cleared area more that six kilometers in diameter. Whether the bugs had denuded it or simply found an existing anomaly to their liking, LeBlue couldn't say. Regardless of what had cleared the miles of boreal forest, the hive sat at the center of a giant clearing which served as a sort of no-man's-land around their adopted home.

_No man's land, _the thought brought a smirk.

Apparently the Xiticix had defensive measures in mind when they had constructed the ragged monoliths. Gaps in the outer ring of structures were few and spanned by arches and connecting tunnels. Up close it looked almost web-like. Marveling at his fortune at ever finding the queen's hidden chamber in the first place, LeBlue could not help but lament the loss of his earlier position. With no further angle presenting itself, he'd have to be nearly on top of the target hole in order to 'lase' it properly, which would mean wandering into the hive itself. That was _if_ the indiscriminant mecha didn't level the whole place first.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on repaying his oxygen debt. He was just regaining a normal rhythm when the explosive bombardment slowed and then stopped altogether, replaced by the chatter of smaller, defensive weapons. In alarm, he looked back at the robot vehicles. Three kilometers distant against the tree line, they looked almost like toys; toys being swarmed by insects.

"Too many…" he mumbled to himself.

A look through his rifle scope filled in the details. A large group of Xiticix warriors was some distance from the mech formation, laying down a respectable base of fire while others would swoop in and alternately harass the flanks. One spider walker was nearly covered by crawling and hacking aliens.

The implications were abundantly clear; in such close proximity, the big electromagnetic mass driving rail guns were nearly useless. It'd be like trying to swat mosquitoes with an ion blaster, LeBlue realized. Deprived of their primary weapons, the robot vehicles went from potent offensive platforms to lumbering targets. He could see the supporting SAMAS troops, with their enhanced mobility, valiantly trying to stave off the aliens, but they were woefully outnumbered and quickly overrun.

Tendrils of panic tickled his organs. The resilient insectoids had overcome their technological disadvantage and were demonstrating knowledge of battle tactics that seemed unthinkable. Should the mechanized troops succumb, the loan sniper's chances of surviving the nightmare would go from slim to anorexic. The body of enemy warriors was simply too vast, someone needed to get to the 'head'.

The glaring 'duh' moment brought the ranger back to the present and off of his scope. His mission _was_ that decapitation. Its completion would be the only hope for any of them. LeBlue looked up and was relieved to see a pair of sky cycles circling patiently over the area. As long as they were still packing their guided ordinance, the mission had a chance. They had a chance.

Straightening slowly, LeBlue adjusted the heavy targeting laser across his back. He'd like to have thought that he'd been in worse situations before, but he couldn't recall any. A deep breath and he set off again.

X X X

"So _now_ the cavalry decides to show up," Icky's voice wasn't exactly beaming with pride.

From their high vantage point, The Ghost could see the shifting battle clearly as well. The diversion had been effective, if not very timely, attracting nearly every Xiticix warrior on the battlefield. But given enough time, the aviator could see that the mech assault would end being only that; a diversion. As he watched, the bugs pressed the advantage of their vastly superior numbers with surprising tactics. A skull walker holding the flank groaned under the onslaught and collapsed beneath the press of a hundred black bodies, its superstructure breached and pouring smoke.

Though the Captain felt no enmity towards the fallen men, whose delay had proven fatal to his closest friend, he could not begin to feel empathy either. The smoldering crater of his own guilt seemed to overshadow any intruding emotion. At the moment, just holding his battered psyche together seemed difficult enough.

Certainly, The Ghost had lost men under his command before. Men like Marion 'Huck' Fynne, he had even called friends. But he'd always been careful to maintain an emotional distance from them. This had led many to think of him as a loner and his unusual call sign had been the result. How utterly appropriate, he reflected, that a man named 'The Ghost' could become so haunted.

In hindsight, it now seemed so inevitable. The captain doubted that any human being could remain psychologically isolated forever. Even so, it'd only been after years of service together had Cracker gotten past his carefully crafted emotional shielding. Some people kept crowds of friends around them. The Ghost didn't. And now because of a reckless and ultimately worthless move, his closest was gone.

For a moment he envied the seemingly mindless Xiticix as they poured over the collapsed spider walker. He doubted they'd miss the hundreds slain there today, doubted that they'd ever suffer the pain that he felt so poignantly. Perhaps, he thought, that's what made them so indomitable. They were restrained by neither consequence nor regret, always driving forward. How small the thought made him feel, hanging in the air above an enemy that could not be cowed; an enemy that had no voice of reason, no need for morale, no sense of self preservation. How could he even begin to hurt such a foe?

But as he circled in the clear April sky, the dazed pilot realized that he already knew the answer to his unspoken question. _Get the Bitch; _he could almost hear Cracker saying the words. Still hounded by doubt, the thought was enough to give The Ghost a focus. Shaking his head and squaring his shoulders, the flight leader took stock of the situation.

A bank of flashing red indicators throbbed on his console and across his visual display, each vying for attention. Long drained of coolant, his engines vented superheated air, singing his legs even through his environmental armor. Only the prolonged bank and diverted slipstream whipping by kept it tolerable. His machine was in pain, though she continued to verbally hold her peace.

With a look at his last remaining companion, the Ghost realized that his wingman had faired only slightly better. Armored fairings had been shot away from Icky's cycle, exposing the expansive mechanical entrails of the beast. A damaged burner trailed ominous black smoke. As if to confirm his assessment, Icky broke the silence yet again.

"I aint doin' so well over here, Cap. Number three turbine is gone, display's dead. If this bitch was about to cheat on me, I wouldn't even know it."

The Ghost just nodded.

"We've got to shit or get off the pot here," Icky prodded.

"Roger that," The Ghost managed, finally.

His man was right. The Captain had never seen an AFC-023 sustain this much damage and continue to fly. Everything he had ever learned about the craft told him to get clear and go to ground. His eyes lingered on his beleaguered compatriot a moment longer. His bare back, noticeably bereft of the familiar bulk of its parachute, drove the point home with exclamation. He looked to the distant shore and the open water beyond.

"Two hours home, and we'll be lucky to make that," said Icky.

The Ghost nodded.

"So if we're gonna run, its gotta be now."

"I can't."

"Wha-?" Icky sounded mystified. "Command couldn't possibly blame you for what happened."

The Ghost only shook his head at the obvious misunderstanding. Certainly there could be no reprisals for a full withdrawal. His flight had lost half its number. Both remaining had sustained critical damage and had depleted their stores of rockets. Only their marginally effective lasers and the cumbersome laser guided bombs remained. Jettisoning the burgeoning weapons and making a beeline for friendly territory might be their only chance of getting out of this alive. No commander would second guess such a decision.

"No retreat, no surrender, huh?" Icky continued. "That's the kind of stupid shit that I'd expect from Cracker, not you."

Something did stir among the flight leader's emotional wreckage then, something warm. Rationally he knew the man was trying to spur him to action, but the thoughts could find no real purchase. It was not fear of reprisal that kept The Ghost in that high orbit. Nor was it a fear of attempting a retreat. For reasons he couldn't articulate, he realized he was looking down at the hive and no longer out to the horizon.

But his wingman didn't seem ready to relent. "You don't even know if there's anyone left down there to mark this bitch."

The Ghost watched the ground.

"This is our last chance, Cap."

"It's not about us," The Ghost mumbled a reply, more to himself than his wingman. The silence that followed the proclamation lasted for several seconds. He finally looked up at Icky who was shaking his helmeted head slowly.

"We've both lost friends here today and there aint a god dam thing that anyone can do to change that," Icky's voice was strained. "You aint thinkin' right, Cap."

The Ghost's grip tightened on the throttle. "Then go."

"Say again?"

"I said go. Get clear and tell command what happened." The Ghost looked back to the ground.

"Dying here aint gonna bring 'im back, Cap."

The warmth inside became a seething heat. "Damn it! I said go, Lieutenant!"

"And then what? Call your mom? Tell her you were killed by your own fuckin' conscience?" asked Icky, frustration boiling amongst the words.

The Ghost did look up then, and drew the laser pistol strapped to his chest. Leveling the weapon across the open air between them, "Go," he growled, "Or it might just kill you first."

Icky hung there, bobbing in formation, shaking his head. For a moment, The Ghost wondered if the man would persist. The slipstream ripped at his outstretched arm and his shoulder ached almost as painfully as the burning in his chest. He knew the bluff could not last, but his decision was made, and he would not take another friend down with him. A long second passed as the two stared each other down.

"I'm sorry, Cap," Was all Icky said when he finally banked out of formation. Streaking greasy smoke east, he made for the shoreline at full throttle.

Hand trembling, The Ghost replaced his weapon and resumed his search of the ground. He couldn't see the man, but somewhere down there was a single human soul; alone amidst the hellish warscape and still in the fight. The Ghost knew he probably wouldn't be able to save this one, but at least he wouldn't have to die alone.

X X X

"This story better net me some ass next time I get back to the rear," LeBlue muttered to himself as he rounded one of the dirty resin towers.

Relatively devoid of activity as the battle raged to the south, the ranger could almost imagine tumbleweeds rolling across the scene. Mounds of rubble and alien bodies lay strewn among the great misshapen, stucco-like crenellations. Shadows obscured large portions of the site as the sun charged into its afternoon arc. Here and there in the distance, the hunched beetlesque diggers of the hive scurried about at various tasks. Worker Xiticix dragged off the dead, others dug into the collapsed piles, but they all seemed too preoccupied to take notice of the lone human prowling from shade to shadow.

Pausing at base of a prominently robust tower that he had previously noted for reference, LeBlue scanned the war-torn alien neighborhood. A minute ticked by as the uniform chaos of design refused to make any sense. The words, 'needle in a haystack,' kept playing through his mind.

"Think, Ranger," he muttered, mimicking the tone of a disapproving instructor.

From his original position near the tree line, he had been able to see the hive as a whole. The use of optics had allowed him to dissect its layout in great detail. Pain-staking analysis of micro-terrain and observation of alien activities had led to the discovery of the enigmatic queen's lair. As he now scanned the hopelessly convoluted compound from the inside, he felt like trying to make sense of a movie with his face inches from the cinema screen. The scale was simply too large. He was lost.

The workers seemed to have no problem navigating the maze as they scurried about their labor. _Just like combat engineers, _thought LeBlue, sagging heavily against the tower. He absently wondered how long it would take the creatures to completely repair the hive and nullify the Coalition's costly campaign. Looking around, the task looked gargantuan. Air strikes and mechanized bombardment had converted a good number of the alien structures into great dirt piles. He guessed that the queen would be directing repair of the more critical structures first.

The thought brought him bolt upright. _Critical structures... _He focused on the diggers. At first they appeared to move just as randomly as the insects they resembled. But the trained sniper saw patterns where few else would. Mixing equal parts logic, conjecture, and instinct, LeBlue was able to identify and trail a contingent that moved purposely deeper into the labyrinthine alien nest.

With all possible stealth, the ranger was able to follow at a distance and avoid detection. As he crawled to the crest of a mound, he saw the diggers reach their destination: a familiar nondescript hole exposed during an earlier bombardment.

"Greetings, your Majesty," he whispered.

The incoming workers joined others already hard at work mixing their peculiar cement, tossing earth into a muddy chum with their oral secretions. Others worked feverishly around them, cobbling a rough dome over their exposed matriarch. Seeing their progress, the ranger understood how he had lost sight of the descending shaft so easily. The bugs worked fast. In another hour, he guessed that the hole would be closed off completely.

_Damned if I'm coming back to do this shit again._

Laying his beloved JA-11 on the dirt, LeBlue readied the targeting laser. Nicknamed 'the mule' for its official nomenclature: Multi Use Laser Equipment, the scout was convinced that the name more accurately characterized its weight. Now so close to the target, it almost seemed like over-kill. At 100 meters, any steady laser beam would likely be enough to reflect a signature for the bombs. But LeBlue was nonetheless grateful to have the ungainly thing. Wielded over one shoulder like a rocket launcher, the device was pin-point accurate and even had internal gyros to help stabilize it. With it, he could not miss.

To the tune of those spooling gyros, LeBlue shimmied out from behind cover. He found the mangled corpse of a Xiticix warrior and crawled beneath the stinking hulk.

"Snug as bug in a rug," he twisted the gas filter closed on his helmet ventilator. With slow deliberate movements, the MULE's reticule came to rest on the opening of the Xiticix royal palace.


	8. Sacrifice

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sacrifice

"Wolf flight, this is Viper one six. Shackle on the target." The voice clearly transmitted from somewhere close.

The Ghost swept his eyes across the ground below. Instantly, the IHAD boxed a small hole near the center of the complex. Apart from the frenzied aliens working the ground around it, the site seemed wholly benign; just another mar on the twisted landscape that the Xiticix had taken as their own. As he considered the improbability of coming across the insignificant hole on his own, he couldn't suppress a grin.

"Wasn't sure you'd make it." He offered.

"Not sure I will, sir." There was a pause, "Be advised, I'm danger close."

The Ghost shook his head. "You've got sand, Ranger. I'll give you that."

"Just pinch your loaf right in the barrel, sir, or you can bury me in it."

He wished he could have met the man, so much like his own. There would be no sending this one away. For better or worse, their fates seemed linked in this final action. Half out of habit, the airman glanced to his right and left, noting the empty air off his stubby winglets.

At least one of his men would survive the day, and with a little luck, no one else would have to return to finish what he'd started. The thought brought as much guilt as it did consolation. The weary fighter pilot had to swallow hard on the emerging emotion, but at least it was something. Feeling was painful, but human. In order to justify what likely came next, if only to himself, he had to believe it was worth something.

"Tally on target. Wolf lead, inbound hot." The Ghost rolled his wounded machine and entered a dive. Angling his nose steeply down towards the yawning earth, he flipped a switch near his left grip to extend the drag brakes.

"Speed brakes, failed." His machine rebuked him. A curse died on his lips as he considered the absurdity of expecting any different.

As the rush of relative wind increased to a ripping gale, The Ghost resisted the urge to enter a tuck. Instead he used his upright posture to increase the drag. The designated target grew slowly in his visor. Despite the dive generated hurricane throttling his helmet and shoulders, it all seemed unnaturally calm. It appeared as though only the industrious workers had remained behind.

That assessment held for another second before the familiar black hulks began to emerge. A multitude streamed forth from the queen's chamber. If it was possible, the monstrous warriors looked even larger than normal. They joined a wide formation; a buzzing black wall advancing to meet his charge. As always, they seemed stoically resolved to remain in his path, perfectly happy to die in their goal. His eyes narrowed as the gap closed.

He entered tuck position.

The TK weapons opened up, ripping the windscreen and a rocket pod from his craft. The sky cycle shuddered and skidded dangerously out of trim, shoving him hard against the restraints. The wind ripped at his body. With a determined stomp to his pedal he brought the nose back in line as more telekinetic energy tore into his machine. A bolt clipped his shoulder, twisting him at the waist. The ghost grunted away the shock flowing from the impact.

The master alarm sounded an atonal high pitched squeal; a marked departure from the normal svelte voice messages. Without even trying, he knew he couldn't silence her this time. He did not want to. She was no longer complaining. The Ghost knew that he listened to the death cry of another faithful companion. He owed her that much. Gripping the bars tightly, the Captain lowered his head to the cowling as if the machine could hear his voice.

"One last time baby, stay with me."

The demon was not in the mood.

With a blast, the heat emanating from the engine compartment became a jetted inferno. His legs shrouded in the blaze, the Ghost screamed. His eyes teared, blurring the target and the intervening insects, but he managed to keep them open. Forcing himself to focus past the blistering heat, he could see the queen's vanguard; still approaching. Head on.

At the last moment, he jinked the flaming cycle, feinting high before reversing low. The warrior vanguard swooped and flailed as he shot past their line. The move earned him painful strike from one of the passing Xiticix; a solid crack across the helmet that nearly wrenched his neck to breaking. Aside from the flashing stars across his vision, his visual display went dark. He ripped the faceplate open. Cool spring air, spiced with pine, whipped through the helmet, ripping the tears from his eyes.

The Ghost blinked in disbelief. In the clear, the target shaft was open like a gigantic maw, welcoming him to hell. Past the screaming alarm, the roaring wind, and the raw pain, he heard the sound he'd been waiting for: the LGB sounded its mournful lock tone. He thumbed the release.

Instinctively, he knew the heavy munition was away. The cycle bucked with lift at the relief of the burden. For a moment she seemed almost willing to forgive his wanton actions, beginning to level. Hazarding hope against surety, the Ghost heaved aft on the bars, urging her on. Then, mere feet from the ground, and almost level, the valiant demon between his legs lost the battle. He felt the engines sputter once. With feet burned beyond feeling, he stomped the vert-burners to slow his descent. A cough, a final burst, and to the counter point of the howling master alarm, the mighty plasma jets went silent.

X X X

LeBlue's focus was so intent on the target; on keeping it pinned under his crosshairs, that he barely glimpsed the bomb as it passed flawlessly into the hole. It was followed a split second later by a gut shaking explosion. A plume of dirt, seasoned with the varied anatomy of many Xiticix, shot hundreds of feet into the air. Even with all that volume going up, it was not difficult to spot the man and machine coming down.

The attacking sky cycle pulled up low; too low, LeBlue realized. It streaked a short distance past the eruption. He could see the smoking aircraft wobble as the pilot fought his controls. With a final effort the struggling airman popped his restraints and moved to leap clear just as the whole whistling bundle hit the ground. In the violent floundering that followed, LeBlue lost sight of the man as pieces of aircraft flew free from the rolling dust cloud. The whole tumult came to rest just as the bomb excavated debris began to rain about him.

The bigger bits came down first. With wet thuds, large chunks of the collective alien biomass slapped at the dry earth. The sniper picked out several arms and legs among many less identifiable pieces. Curved bits that reminded him of slimy green egg shells came down next, followed by the loud plop of what must have been their contents. At long last, the rock, pebble and dirt precipitation ceased its tittering on his makeshift cover of alien bodies.

In the relative silence that followed, LeBlue could hear the stammering firefight continuing from the direction of the mech unit. But the scene before him was calm. An enormous dust cloud wafted lazily off with the meager wind, revealing the carnage in full. The neat rim of the target shaft had become a gaping crater. Off to one side, the wreckage of a wadded-up sky cycle lay on its back, small flames crawling over its frame. Nothing moved.

A few steadying breaths passed before the sniper willed himself to crawl out of his macabre hide and stand. He looked upward, searching for the warriors that must've brought down the valiant sky rider. They remained high above; circling, as if afraid to approach the scene of their ultimate failure. He couldn't resist pounding a fist into his body armor.

"My world! Mine!" He yelled at the sky. "And I…don't…share!" The syllables punctuated by a beating fist against his chest.

The bugs remained at altitude, flitting aimlessly. Though he was certain that they couldn't hear him, his defiance was more a tribute to the fallen airman than a taunt. Heavy weapons chattered in the distance as if offering a combat version of the fitting salute. With the queen gone, the armored robots should be able to break the stalemate to the south. They'd come pounding in to level the place soon enough. And then they could all go home.

_Well, most of us anyway. _The thought had a sobering effect. Dropping the MULE and recovering his rifle, the ranger stepped toward the mangled wreckage.

_No,_ he decided,_ this one goes home too. _At the very least the man would get a proper burial.

But as he drew closer, something moved. At first LeBlue thought it could've been the shifting dust or a trick of the shadows.But then it moved again. Squinting through the glare, he saw the silhouette of a man, moving as if to crawl before collapsing back to the ground.

Though he barely dared to hope, he could not refute the sight. A wave of excitement crept over the veteran sniper as he broke into a jog. _That crazy motherfucker is still alive, _he allowed himself. He couldn't stop the smile that followed.

_We did it!_

He had seen the bomb pass into the shaft, right into the pickle barrel. LeBlue doubted that anything could have survived the blast. His elation rose at the belated turn of fortune. With a bit more luck, he might even be able to get the man to safety. He picked up the pace. For the first time since Jensen's death, his spirits rested on something more substantial than a denial of the inevitable. Even his friend's sacrifice suddenly seemed to carry more meaning.

"Hang on, Sir," he said into his mike. There was no response.

As he drew closer, the crumpled aviator managed to rollover onto his back and seemed to be struggling with the clasps of his helmet. The ranger could see the man clearly now: lying supine with one blackened leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. As he worked the stubborn helmet with one hand, his free hand pawed at the air emphatically, as if motioning LeBlue away.

"Sir? What's wrong?"

No response.

Subconsciously, the sniper slowed in his approach. Confusion was fighting a prickling sensation racing through his spine. Beneath his slowing feat, the earth shuddered. His eyes opened wide.

The ranger stopped in his tracks.

With a rumble of shaking earth nearly as loud as her enraged hiss, the enormous creature clawed her way over the crater's rim. LeBlue stood agape in her emerging shadow. Her exoskeleton blasted and cracked in many areas exposing green ooze and shiny black gristle. At over twice his height and many times over his width, the Xiticix queen seemed all the more fearsome for her garish wounds.

At least one limb was missing, but if she felt the damage, the ranger couldn't tell. With a final lunge, she brought her prodigious burned and swollen abdomen to ground level. The multiple black eyes set in her angular head were dominated by a pair of large black pools that practically dripped with malice. They locked and held the crippled pilot in their baleful stare.

The injured airman finally managed to remove his helmet. Amazingly, he just laid there in a twisted pile staring back at the gory abomination. With a start, LeBlue realized that he was standing motionless, gaping like a witness to a train wreck. It was enough to prod his shocked mind back into action.

With the speed of a pit viper in strike, the stock of the JA-11 found his shoulder. His sights were just settling on the queen's blasted carapace when he was hit from the side with the force of a hover-truck. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, but he rolled with it, tumbling with the newest assailant. Glimpsing the furious worker Xiticix in mid roll, the sniper cursed his own carelessness at not spotting the skulker. Coming out on top, the alien reared back with one of its wicked pincers. LeBlue parried the descending blow with the length of his rifle. With a crack, the claw lodged fast in the metal and ballistic plastic. Undeterred, the monster yanked furiously at the stuck appendage, while using another set of limbs, ending in hands, to grasp the man's throat.

LeBlue kicked and arched from his back as best he was able, but could not dislodge the weighty creature. His mind reeled, lack of oxygen threatening panic. The grotesque insectoid face seemed to mock his struggle; so close it nearly blotted out the April sky. His chest heaved, his breathing cut into raspy bursts inside his helmet, he looked past the monstrosity. Should it take him, LeBlue was determined that his last sight be anything but the viscous drool dribbling down onto his faceplate. He focused instead on that beautiful cerulean expanse; the sky of _his _world.

_A world worth dying for_, he decided as his consciousness began to narrow.

Still his body fought, thrashing in denial. But his fear faded, replaced by a familiar calm acceptance. In all of his 26 years, the veteran sniper couldn't recall a sky that perfectly blue. Nearly flawless, it was marred only by a single line of greasy black smoke.

X X X

Hundreds of scenes of battle as viewed by hundreds of individual foci filtered through her collective consciousness. Each acted out a part directed as much by instinct as by her communal guidance. But at that moment she gave up a measure of her omniscient telepathy in order to focus on this particular human. She, the queen, had been attacked, had been terribly wounded, and would have her vengeance. She would not share it. The swarm, spread so widely across the battlefield, visibly slowed as the greatest-among-equals demanded a singular focus.

The human flyer was hurt, that much she knew. Even in its alien strangeness, she could tell the primate warrior was wounded; its body blackened and twisted. Looking down, she was awed by its utter insignificance. That something as small and fragile as this one had caused such pain; it was patently absurd. She would revisit the agony upon this impertinent creature tenfold. She would tear its broken body to pieces before she let it die.

_Alone and helpless, it must foresee its termination by now_, one voice remarked.

Annoyed at the intrusion, The Queen could not refute the logic.

But still, it looked defiant. Even as she drew near, she could see it yelling into a discarded head-shell. Its screeching voice, so unnatural, grated at the nerves. Its ugly face scrunched up into an unreadable mass of pliant flesh. But those eyes… those she could read. And it wasn't fear that flashed in those cold blue orbs. It was hate; as pure and righteous as her own. The Queen paused.

A thousand minds shouted in unison for its demise.

_Silence! _ She broadcast with a fury so rich it drew forth an audible hiss. She hadn't realized her mental barrier had slipped.

The hive mother dragged her cracked and oozing abdomen nearer to the struggling human. Cries of pain from her damaged body shot through the mind and despite her will, even transmitted to those nearest her. They had never been hurt so. The effect was odd and unsettling. Like the inexplicable unrest they felt during the great electrical storms on this strange world. Or the even stranger calm blue skies that followed. So like those eyes…

These primate 'humans' were truly an enigma; their resolve so weak, their isolated minds so limited. And yet they had inherited a world so rife with resource and magical energy. Fate had delivered to them something rich beyond their own feeble comprehension, and what had they done with it besides nearly exterminating themselves and destroying their precious little rock? The hive people would take it away; would see it achieve a destiny beyond imagining, as they had done with a hundred worlds before. The primates would fight of course, just as they had fought themselves for eons untold. And like the singular before her, they would all die. That was the natural order of things. That was destiny, and its glorious end would be one step closer with this little primate's death.

Exerting her will, the queen forced the hive back, again commanding a focus on the lone humanoid. The primate had dropped the head-shell and had drawn a small weapon. It aimed, but discharged only a thin beam that sprayed, prism-like, through her compound eyes. She recalled that many humanoids relied on such delicate devices to train their weapons; annoying, but harmless. For that matter, she doubted that the tiny weapon could cause her real harm even if the primate were to loose its venom. If anything, it was the continuing defiance that intensified her rage. She advanced.

Several warrior minds brushed against her mind block. No doubt the minions wanted to share in the pleasure of the kill. She compelled them back. They remained urgent, almost pleading, but outside her focus. She would savor this one alone.

Reaching down to end the miserable thing, she should have been able to smell the stink of its fear through the swirling soup of sensation. But it just lay there, brandishing a worthless weapon, flashing its harmless light in futility. Its mouth opened and a guttural screech that could only be a challenge bellowed forth. She felt entire hive tense behind her poised malice.

A roar like thunder from above and she froze. A human machine shot by low overhead, trailing smoke into the distance. She dropped the mind block.

_Look out! _Cried a thousand voices as one.

A thousand minds experienced it at once: a brilliant concussive flash, then nothing. And for the first time in their lives, a thousand Xiticix minds faced life on the planet Earth- alone.

X X X

The pounding on the upper hatch stopped abruptly. Aside from several warning alarms, the cockpit of the walker was quiet.

"They must be regrouping," Wilbanks muttered in disbelief. "Now's our chance! Driver, pull back into the tree line. Gunner, cover our-"

"Sir, look!" His driver was pointing at the central visual display. A second plume of dust rose from the distant hive. A circular shockwave rushed across the open ground. With a boom audible even inside the sealed robot, it washed over bugs and CS forces alike.

In the foreground, the remaining Xiticix were flying in a hundred different directions, some even crashing into one another. Their base of fire ceased, their meticulous formation scattered, and for a brief moment, the field was silent save for the heavy beating of insectoid wings. Literally beating a full retreat.

Popping his restraints, Wilbanks stood slowly, barely willing to accept the evidence on screen. _Those prissy flyboys actually did it. _Spent adrenaline still coursed through his mind. For a long moment gaping at the turn of fortune was all the stunned commander could do.

"Sir?" It was his gunner.

Looking down at the expectant troop, the Lieutenant pointed at the view screen as if the answer was self-evident. "What the hell are you waiting for, man? Damn bugs won't kill themselves!"

The gunner gave a hoot, blazing full cyclic rate from his air defense lasers until the over-temp warning sounded. Undaunted, he grasped a second control yoke and fired shot after shot with the heavy 'rails'. Despite the machine's gyro-stabilized chassis, the cabin rocked with the massive recoil. Wilbanks had to grasp an overhead handle to hold his footing as he canted orders into the radio.

"Wolf pack, this is lead. The enemy is falling back. Reform attack formation, nothing gets away!"

Confirmations rattled in. In short order, the desperate defensive fire was once again a fusillade of outgoing death. The battered SAMAS troops took to the air in pursuit of the faltering alien warriors, their light rail guns chattering. Around the formation, bugs were falling from the air in droves. Their heavy black forms bouncing and flopping about the open ground. As rapidly as it had begun, the battle for the southern high-ground was over. For the first time since his opening salvo, a confident smile returned to the Lieutenant. He keyed the mike again.

"Wolf pack, all units, advance on the target. No prisoners." The Lieutenant belted out orders, gaining momentum as he went. "Nothing get's out alive. Nothing left standing. I repeat; we leave this place a parking lot!"

Damaged servos and leaky hydraulic actuators screeched in protest all across the formation as the embattled 31st mech resumed their advance.

X X X

If the first blast rattled his innards, the last one felt as if it'd ripped them out completely. Thankfully, the large creature on top of LeBlue seemed to have absorbed most of the blast. The creature shifted wildly as if stunned and disoriented. Life giving oxygen coursed into the man's burning lungs. Curling his legs beneath him, the sniper drew a vibro-knife from a boot sheath. In one motion, a furious thrust put the keening weapon through his assailant's chest plate.

The creature hissed and rolled off of him as if to escape. But LeBlue re-gripped the handle with both hands and twisted. The Xiticix flailed wildly, spitting green mucus from its quivering mouthparts. Looking into those alien eyes, he twisted, withdrew, and thrust again.

"How you like me now, bitch?" He yelled. The attacked played out over many long seconds before the creature finally went still.

He stood unsteadily, ears still ringing from the blast. Heavy weapons blasted away in the distance but were closing in. The area around him was blasted and covered in gore. 'Hellish' seemed an understatement. Dazed, and not really knowing why, he ran back to the heaviest concentration of organic mass. The epicenter was churning with quivering muscle tissue, and hunks of scorched exoskeleton. He reached into the pile and shifted a large mass, earning a covering of greasy fluid.

Not exactly sure that he wanted to find what was buried here, LeBlue couldn't imagine leaving his brave comrade to be buried in such a place. He knew his last vision of the man: wounded and alone, staring down an alien queen, would forever stand among his proudest of humanity. Another chunk of gristle and sinew give way as he pushed against an oozing disembodied abdomen.

_He must've seen it coming, must've guided the final bomb in nearly on top of himself_. LeBlue threw a knotted tangle of green organs aside.

_Selflessness ultimately greater than those who had no 'self'_. LeBlue shook his head. Even so, the price seemed too high. A thousand of the creatures were not worth such a man. Weeks of repressed anxiety coursed through the ranger's bruised mind. He felt wetness running down a cheek inside his helmet and pried it off. Instantly overcome by the vile stench, LeBlue fell to his knees, retching.

For a long minute, he knelt there, his stomach twisting in knots, emptying its meager contents. When at last the reflex subsided, he shakily stood once more. A sky cycle wheeled overhead, chasing down the scattering bugs. Almost swooning as he returned to the task, he reached down again.

Another chunk came free. He stopped, transfixed upon something amidst the morass. Holding his helmet close enough to pick up his voice, he spoke into the microphone.

"Wolf flight, this is Viper."

"Holy shit! You still alive, boy?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Can you verify target destroyed?"

"Fuck'n ay I can." LeBlue wiped a strand of alien bio-matter from his helmet.

"What about Captain Drogue?" the question was hesitant.

"I think you better get down here."

"Why? What happened?"

LeBlue didn't have the heart to spell it out over the airwaves. All he could see among the grisly carnage was a single armored glove.

"He deserves better than this," was all he said.

"Roger that, I'm on my way."

The veteran sniper tossed his helmet away, figuring that he'd likely need both hands for the gruesome task ahead. One gauntlet and likely an arm lay buried here, but the rest of the brave airman was liable to be close. He reached down to collect his comrade.

The gauntlet reached up and clasped his hand.


	9. Absolution

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Absolution

Vision returned in flashes. Captain John Drogue was assailed by barely perceptible ribbons of consciousness accompanied by rushes of nausea and vertigo. At first, the world had a skewed, unfocused slant to it and was completely devoid of color. He vaguely sensed a distressed tingling in his lower extremities and left arm. With flaring cramps, his internal organs seemed bent on rejecting the brain giving them orders.

After a concerted effort, The Ghost forced what felt like leaden eyelids open and focused on a gray wall. The spinning room eventually slowed and began to resemble a reality that he was familiar with. He was lying on a bed; the automatic folding type found in hospitals. In grayscale, his hazy vision made a detailed appraisal of his surroundings difficult. He could tell the room was small, clean, and orderly. After weeks of operating from a forward operations camp, the space seemed immaculate.

"Ah, the hero awakens," the voice came from his side.

The Ghost had to consciously will his head to turn to the side, earning himself a shooting pain through the neck. A middle aged man in a white lab coat looked on expectantly.

"And how are we feeling today?" the man asked.

Drogue had to fight to bring the figure into focus. His eyes seemed to be working independent of one another. "Who are you?" He asked. "Where am I?"

"And he speaks," the man seemed very happy about something.

The pilot's eyelids drooped of their own accord. Assuming he was still under the influence of powerful sedatives, he moved to rub the weariness from his eyes. His left arm seemed unwilling to respond. After a half-hearted second attempt he looked up at the speaking figure.

"_He's_ still waiting for an answer," the captain mimicked the man's use of the third person pronoun.

"Ah, yes, well you must forgive my surprise. There were those among my colleagues who doubted you'd ever awaken. Too much damage to the brain, they said. The human body can only take so much, they said-"

"Did they all ramble as much as you?"

"Some even more so," the man replied without losing a beat. "But again, I apologize. My name is Phillip Bell. Major. But please call me Doctor Bell. All that adherence to military protocol can be so counterproductive in the hospital setting. In fact I-"

"Hospital?" Drogue asked. The doctor was reluctantly coming into focus. He held the obligatory clipboard to a narrow chest and was adjusting a pair of wire rimmed glasses over his hawkish nose. A head of thick curly hair bobbed excitedly as the man nodded. Drogue couldn't tell what color it was.

"Oh yes, you are an honored guest of Independence medical command hospital, and have been for the last week and a half."

"In Missouri?" Drogue's thoughts still moved sluggishly.

"Yes."

"That's a long way from the fight."

"Indeed. You were brought in by air medivac ten days ago. In quite bad shape I might add."

Among The Ghost's fractured memories, the few details that were taking shape didn't make much sense. A piercing headache flared in the right side of his skull. Reflexively he went to pinch the bridge of his nose, trying his right arm this time. His thumb struck something hard and cold on his face. Metal.

In alarm, the airman traced the metal plate up onto his forehead and back down along his temple to below his cheek bone. With trembling fingers he explored his right eye only to discover a cold circular orbit containing a dished lens. The artificial eye made soft whirring noises as it tried to bring the exploring hand into focus. Pain lanced through his head.

Feeling the natural half of his face blanche, The Ghost looked up to the doctor. Pain aside, his sense of alarm was helping to rapidly realign his thoughts and memories. He saw the leering malice of the Xiticix Queen, heard the roar of Icky's sky cycle, and then- nothing.

"What the hell did you do to me?" He demanded.

"Well, we started off with saving your life," Doctor Bell sounded only a little put off by the question. "The rest of the time was spent replacing what we couldn't save."

The Ghost's aching head drooped in resignation, realizing that he could not rightfully hold onto any anger at the man. The decision to bring a laser guided bomb down within meters of one's self was made 300 miles from here. In a place the doctor probably could not even imagine.

"I'm sorry, Doc," he said before asking, "Can I have a mirror."

"Of course," the Doctor rifled through a drawer by the bedside before producing a small hand mirror.

With trembling hands, The Ghost brought the reflective glass to bear. Small pink shrapnel wounds were thoroughly stitched and on their way to healing across his left cheek and forehead. An angry red scar just to the side of his nose traced the edge of a contoured alloy plate covering the right side of his face. The artificial eye socket ensconced a single circular lens that rotated at the egdes, dilating a robotic iris.

"The ANR-21B multi optic eye," Doctor Richter proclaimed proudly.

"I preferred the original," mumbled the airman looking into the disheartened natural one in the mirror. It should be blue.

"I believe you'll find this one extraordinarily useful in your line of work," the doctor continued, upbeat. "It is capable of a multitude of functions-"

"Useful? I can't even see color!" The Ghost could not keep the venom from his voice.

"Oh that," Bell smiled warmly. "I suppose I should explain."

The Ghost glared at the man past the mirror.

The smile faded and the doctor cleared his throat. "In order to attach the video leads to your occipital lobes we had to shut down that portion of your brain for proper grafting. In restarting its function, that particular section of the brain loses many former learned synaptic nexuses."

The ghost blinked twice, slowly.

"Much like rebooting a computer," the doctor explained, "What your brain has learned to do visually will have to be relearned. You are effectively seeing the world as you did at your birth. Perfect color vision will return soon, generally in a month or two, along with the 21B's higher functions."

"Yeah, like what?"

"Well, there's telescopic zoom, passive infrared, and thermal imaging to name a few. I've left the user's manual in your nightstand drawer. I believe you'll find it eminently useful during your rehabilitation training."

Drogue brought the mirror down at that, squaring the doc in his blurry gray frame. "Rehab?"

"Oh yes, I'm afraid that while many visual functions will return naturally, the high end ones will need to be learned and practiced before they are mastered."

The pilot sighed. "I still prefer the old one."

"Of that I have no doubt," the doctor sympathized. "Most of my patients are thoroughly screened volunteers. You, on the other hand, had little choice in the matter."

The Ghost looked down at his white sheets, unwilling to contemplate the doctor's choice of words.

"As for the medical options, I'm afraid I had no choice either," Richter continued, as if trying to buoy the distressed airman's spirits with the reality of it all. "The right side of your maxillo-cranial structure was completely destroyed, along with your right eye. And that was not even the worst of the damage. Considering what was left of you when you were brought here, it still amazes me that they were able to stabilize you in the field."

Drogue did look up at the reference. "What was left of me?" He was suddenly very conscious of the now distinct tingling of his extremities.

The doctor winced. "I'm afraid you have yet to view my handiwork in full." Leaning forward, he meaningfully tapped his pen against the pilot's left shoulder. The sound of plastic on metal was unmistakable.

Heedless of the stabbing pain in his neck, Drogue craned his neck to view the appendage. Bandages covered the attachment point, but clearly visible was the robotic outline of a high-end bionic arm and hand. He willed it to move. The tingling member contracted painfully, the metal hand bunching into a balled fist. He managed to hold the awkward position for a few seconds before his focus faltered and the mechanical limb dropped back to the mattress.

"Very good," the doctor crooned. "Like your eye, it'll take time but will eventually be as useful as the original. Even more so, if I may be so bold."

"All right, Doc, out with it. What all did you replace?" The Ghost was fighting a sinking feeling.

"All told, you received minor skull reconstruction, the multi-optic eye, your new left arm, and cybernetic replacement of your spleen, gall bladder, and kidneys." Richter was ticking off individual fingers with his eyes upward. "Several of my colleagues thought your lungs and heart should go as well, but I daresay that you have very healthy vitals, Captain, and I opted to keep those bits."

"Much obliged," The Ghost muttered trying his left arm again. "Is that it?"

"Not quite. Your pelvis and spine were reinforced to support the attachment of your legs."

"My legs?" The heretofore tingling limbs remained covered by a white sheet.

"Yes," the doctor explained, pulling the sheet back proudly to reveal one shining black composite structure, "Your command has spared no expense in your reconstruction."

They were obviously no crude mechanical construct. The glossy black surface was contoured artfully, resembling the natural musculature of the legs they replaced. The Ghost could not help but run his real hand across the flawless veneer.

"What are they?" he asked in awe.

"I believe the system is known as the XL-151; Night-Strider, or some such nonsense. An experimental bionics kit that incidentally arrived only days after you did."

"Experimental?"

"Oh yes, state of the art carbon composites, much lighter and stronger than the usual alloys. But the most intriguing part is their means of actuation. Rather than the usual servos, rams, and hydraulics, these are powered by honest to goodness artificial muscles, replicated down to the cellular level, but made of ballistic polymers." The doctor's eyes glittered. "For these, I almost envy you."

"Almost?"

"Well as you can see," he said spreading his arms wide, "even as a doctor of cybernetics, I still prefer the original equipment as well."

_Equipment? _At that, The Ghost's eyes popped open wide, and his good hand shot to his groin.

"Doc, am I…is it…I mean…did you-"

The doctor rolled his eyes before cracking a reassuring smile. "Pilots…" he muttered. "Yes Captain, we managed to save your manhood, if that's what had you worried. I believe you'll find yourself none the worse for wear in that department. Amazing, actually, considering the condition of your legs. Consider yourself fortunate."

An audible sigh escaped the battered airman.

"Do I sense a little gratitude leaking through?"

Despite the pain, tingling, and general weariness that racked his cobbled body, The Ghost could not begrudge the friendly doctor a small smile. In all, he hadn't expected to come out of the battle alive. He still had the parts of him that mattered the most, it seemed. And the rest he'd just have to get used to.

"Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome." Doc Bell smiled warmly. "Now, if you'd indulge me, I'd like to-"

He was unceremoniously interrupted by the sliding of the automatic door to the small room. In walked a tall CS soldier, dressed sharply in his service uniform. He wore a large smile, white teeth contrasting with dark skin. He was an enlisted man by the cut of his uniform, and Drogue vaguely recognized the blurry face from somewhere in the battalion. But try as he might, he could not remember the man's name.

The newcomer snapped to attention, announcing himself formally. "Sergeant Desmond LeBlue, sir."

The Ghost may have never known the name, but he knew he'd never forget the voice. "Viper!" he cried, holding out his working arm.

The ranger shook the proffered hand warmly. "Yes sir."

"We got the Bitch?" It was a question.

"That's putting it mildly, sir," LeBlue winced before continuing. "It looked like she took most of the blast, but you were still burned, broken, and blown up pretty good."

"That would explain the headaches."

LeBlue smiled. "Looks like they got you stitched up pretty well though."

"Yeah, the Doctor here thought my face could use some improvements."

"Shee-it, he just knew he couldn't make it any worse," the unmistakable drawl came from the open doorway.

The Ghost looked to see a beaming Icky, dressed in his flight suit, saunter into the room. The man wasted no time coming to the bedside and wrapping his flight leader in a tight hug. Despite the pain that came with the effort, Drogue returned the slapping embrace with his good arm. When at last the smiling man pulled back, Drogue found it difficult to look him in the eye.

"Um…Ick, about the whole 'threatening at gunpoint' thing. I-" he started.

Icky just waved away the apology. "I knew you were hurtin, Cap. Jus' widened my orbit a bit to give you your space was all." He shrugged, then added, "-Sides, if you think I was gonna lug that turd of a bomb all the way to a Xiticix hive and go home without droppin it on somethin' cool then you're crazier than I thought."

"Something cool? You mean like my head?"

"Now that was your idea," Icky returned before offering in all seriousness. "Bravest thing I ever seen, Cap."

"Amen," LeBlue added solemnly.

The Ghost found that even blushing hurt. He dodged the topic instead. "So the unit cleared you two for leave just to come down to Missouri and kiss my carbonized butt? When do you have to report back?"

The two men glanced sidelong at each other, their expressions growing dark.

"He doesn't know," LeBlue said to Icky.

"I'm afraid Captain Drogue has just barely awakened," interjected the Doctor. "Perhaps you gentlemen can catch him up at a later time."

"Catch me up on what?" The Captain looked from one man to the other, his thoughts dragging sluggishly behind his perception.

Icky shrugged. "Aint no unit to go back to, Cap. The 14th was disbanded."

The Ghost blinked, it was an eerie sensation. The perception of his artificial right eye never faltered. It felt more like a wink.

"What?" he asked.

"Battalion commander was fragged during the op. They're saying the Major tried to throw the whole game. Some General came out from division and disbanded the whole battalion right after we got back to the rear. Everybody got new orders and off they went."

"We were given leave to come see you before reporting to our new command," LeBlue put in.

"Least they could do, if you ask me," said Icky. "After we went to all the trouble of dragging your splattered ass out of there." He looked The Ghost over, his brow furrowed. "Looks like half of the parts we picked up just got shit-canned anyway."

"I told you they would," LeBlue answered him.

The Ghost wasn't listening. He was still trying to attach meaning to the earlier proclamation. His head throbbed.

The doctor cleared his throat. "Perhaps now's not the best time-"

The Ghost waved his mother hen away. "Berthold? Frag the Colonel?" He groggily recalled the armored reinforcements halting their advance. He shook his head. "Doesn't make sense, it was her operation."

Icky shrugged again. "Well, that's what they're sayin'. Said she was sabotaging us all along, and had to off the old man to keep us from winning."

"That's not what I heard," LeBlue said quietly.

Icky looked curiously at the sniper. "Well, you're the one who's buddy-buddy with all them S-2 eggheads, so spill the scuttlebutt, Ranger."

"Gentlemen, please," the Doctor pleaded, "I'm sure there will be plenty of time to discuss things once the Captain has had some rest." By now it was obvious that nobody in the room was listening to him.

LeBlue opened his mouth to speak but was cut short when the doctor let out a yell.

"Attention on deck!" he called sharply. From the doorway came a flash of brass as a graying officer in full dress uniform marched into the room. Icky, LeBlue, and the Doctor all snapped to attention.

"At ease, men," the senior officer said as he strode into the room.

Drogue's vision, even being what it was, he was still fairly certain that he could count four shining stars on the man's epaulet along with a host of campaign ribbons and medals upon his chest. As the man drew closer, a pair of I.S.S. 'Specters', nameless government agents, entered and flanked the doorway.

"Captain John Drogue?" The General asked.

"Yes Sir."

The man produced a framed document and began to read from it. "By these proceedings, so shall it be known that on the second of April, in the year post apocalypse one hundred and two, that Captain John Drogue, while assigned to the 14th Coalition Expeditionary Force, 4th Infantry Division, led a combat mission from forward airbase Charlie one-four, into enemy territory. As flight leader, Captain Drogue led his men gallantly against overwhelming numbers of the enemy…"

The Ghost new what was coming. In his years of service he'd heard enough awards citations to recognize the formatted recital after the first few words. The General rolled on and on, extolling a great number of exploits. Some real, but others embellished somewhat, or at least chronicled with such lavish formality that they seemed to take on a fantastic scope. Despite the praise, the pilot could not help but feel as if he were being used as a smoke-screen to cover a military's moment of disgrace. It was true; his last sortie had seen the worst the monstrous Xiticix could throw at him. But a disturbing thought kept bouncing around in his bruised mind. In the entire campaign, not once had he seen one of the aliens turn on another. The General's monologue flitted in and out of his consciousness.

"…despite heavy losses, and even the gross treason and betrayal of a superior officer..."

The Ghost thought he saw LeBlue flinch but couldn't tell for sure. _Damn blurry vision._

"…For intrepid leadership under fire, and a selfless dedication to duty above and beyond even the proud traditions of the armed forces of the Coalition States of America, it is with great pride that I hereby award Captain John Drogue with the Iron Cross and promote him to the rank of Major. May his actions serve as an example to us all, until final victory, and peace, is humanity's." The General paused briefly before going on to read the signatory line. "Signed, Ross Underhill, commanding general, 4th combined infantry division, Coalition 3rd field army, commanding."

Holding out the framed document, the stern looking General even cracked a small smile. "Congratulations son, your country is proud of you, and your sacrifice does not go unnoticed."

"Thank you," The Ghost managed. He wanted to ask if Cracker, Huck, or any of the others who were killed in action would receive such honors. He held his tongue.

"I take it they're treating you well, here? Got you all patched up I see."

The Ghost shrugged his metal shoulder. Behind the General, he saw Dr. Bell's eyes bulging at the perceived slight. But the high-ranking officer didn't seem bothered in the least.

"Keep your chin up, Major, you'll get used to it."

"Yes Sir," the Ghost replied quietly.

"I mean it, airman. Got one myself," the man tapped a knuckle on his left coat sleeve, the metal echoed. Drogue met his commanding visage as he added, "And God knows there are pieces of a leader that are not so easily replaced."

"My men?"

The elder officer just nodded sagely. "We're soldiers. It's what we do. And unfortunately, they won't be the last."

Next, the general produced a black velveteen clamshell and clicked it open. The Ghost could not even bring himself to look at the medal it contained. There was a long moment of awkward silence before Dr. Bell mercifully cleared his throat.

"Um, Sir, I believe the Captain… er, Major is still suffering from the shock of his wounds, all this excitement and such. Perhaps if you leave the medal with one of his men…"

"Very well," the high-ranking officer said. He snapped the clamshell shut noisily and handed it to Icky. "See that he gets it, Lieutenant."

"Yes Sir." After a round of salutes, the polished General strode for the door. He paused and turned, locking the wounded Drogue in an evocative stare.

"I mean it, Son. You've got to let them go."

The gathered soldiers then watched him turn and leave. The Internal Security Service agents remained behind, bleak sentinels at the threshold. The room was quiet.

Among his other talents, the doctor seemed to be good at breaking odd silences. "Well, it appears that you have able help on hand," he said with a glance at the black-clad agents. "I'll let you three catch up. Remember that you can page me at any time with the call button at your bedside."

"Right."

The doctor turned to leave.

"Hey Doc."

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

"No, it should be me thanking you. All of you." And with a salute, he too was gone.

Icky sauntered up to the bedside, looking meaningfully into the velvet case. He blew a low whistle.

"The Iron Cross, highest award for valor in air combat. Never thought I'd actually ever see one." Icky shook his head wistfully before continuing. "Whatcha want me to do with it?"

"Does it matter?"

Icky slapped the case shut and put on a disgusted frown. "Oh man, would you get over yourself? This wallowing shit is getting' kind of old."

"So what do you think? That I should just- let them go?"

"For God's sake yes! It's what the Crack-head would say to your face if he were here right now!"

"But he isn't."

"And that aint your fault!" Icky's words came quickly. "We all knew when we took off that morning that we might not make it back. You blame yourself for that, like we aren't qualified to risk our own necks or somethin'. We followed you, by choice. And dammit, we…" he motioned collectively as if to include the entire hospital, or maybe the entire planet, "…won _because_ we followed you."

"Look at me," The Ghost replied, indicating his shattered body. "Look what happened to the unit. Gone. Do you really feel like we won anything out there?"

Icky looked away.

The Ghost was shaking his head when LeBlue stepped up to the bedside. "For what it's worth, sir, I lost a friend too. Bugs hit us good. But make no mistake, not a single one of them crawled away from that nest. You did what had to be done." He glanced at the ISS Specters before he looked back at The Ghost meaningfully, "We all did."

Try as he might, the pilot could not look away from that penetrating gaze. The eyes of a warrior could say much even when his lips could not. And they never lied. What seemed unbearable and had to be hidden from when alone was suddenly tolerable with the proffered strength of a friend. Carefully crafted barriers, years in construction, were difficult to see past. But, for the first time in a long time, The Ghost realized that he was not alone. He felt his self pity melting away even before Icky spoke up again.

"-Sides, these things aint won," he was looking into the case again, "they're earned." He held out the Iron Cross.

Major John Drogue reached up and touched it. For a brief moment, both held a small black ribbon from which dangled a burnished iron cross. For a longer moment words were not needed.

Icky stepped away, setting the medal swinging. The Ghost noted that it was probably the only object in the room that was truly the gray hue that he perceived. Wetness threatened in one good eye. With a sniff, he tucked the item away, determined to change the subject.

"You two will be alright without me around for a while?" he asked.

LeBlue nodded quietly.

Icky's response was much livelier. "We're soldiers, Boss." Icky did his best Cracker imitation before cracking a smile. "And like a wise dude told me once… it aint about us."

The Ghost could not constrain the smile that followed.

As the tension fell away, Icky faced LeBlue. "C'mon 'Blue, I think them hot nurses were fixin' to challenge us to another game of spades."

The sniper just groaned.

"I take it you two have been here a while?" The flight leader asked.

Icky glanced at the taller soldier before throwing an arm across the man's shoulder. "Shoot, this sumbitch has been schoolin' me at spades for the last ten days while we waited for you to come back from the dead." He glanced at the man again, stifling a wry grin. "Crazy init?"

"What, that you suck at cards?" Drogue didn't find the revelation all that earth shattering.

"Not that. From the way he sounds over the radio, I'da never figured my man here for a brother," Icky ruminated. "Sounds more like a Chi-Town white boy."

"That's funny," LeBlue interjected with a smile. "The way you sound, I'd have never figured you for an officer."

The Ghost only smiled. True comrades, offering one another the ultimate compliments: insults. If the taciturn agents in the doorway saw any mirth in the situation, they didn't show it. They just stood there, dutifully emotionless. It occurred to him then that aside from slightly different hues of gray that all the men looked the same in his nascent vision. They were human. They did what they had to do. And that was okay.

_Authors note: Well, if you made it this far, I'm assuming that you at least liked something about the story. I really appreciate any and all comments and will reply to every one. Let me know what worked for you, what didn't, or what was confusing. I found myself cutting a lot of explanatory exposition to try and keep the piece moving, and I'm fairly certain that some things were lost in translation as it were. All told though, I had a great time writing it and place high value on any pointers as I roll into the next project. Thanks for the read. -Mojo_


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